Giant Stompin' Robots
Author: James Young; Bryan Young; Jacob Holo; Kevin Ikenberry; Kal Spriggs; Lee Allred; J. M. Anjewierden; Spearman Burke; Jesse M Slater; MOZE E HOWARD
Date: 2024-10-26 07:00:00+00:00
Description: You like your mecha with a side of alien invasions? It’s in here. Illicit gangs trying to fix heavy mecha demolition derbies? Done. Brave pilots standing between shrieking chaos and everything they hold dear? Good reader, if there was a Heroism Buffet, this anthology would be the restaurant your friends were rolling you out of every weekend. So plop yourself down at your favorite table, pour yourself a stiff one of sake (or soda if you’re the same age as the plucky teenage hero with bright hair) and prepare to be entertained by Giant...Stompin’...Robots!
Publisher: Raconteur Press

GIANT STOMPIN’ ROBOTS

RACONTEUR PRESS ANTHOLOGIES

EDITED BY

JAMES YOUNG

CONTENTS

Introduction

Dr. James Young

1. Titanfall
by Kal Spriggs

2. Such Giant Rude Invention

By Lee Allred

3. In Cat We Trust
by Jesse M. Slater

4. Righteous Goliath

By Bryan Young

5. Amazon Black
by Spearman Burke

6. Same Dance, New Partner

J. M. Anjewierden

7. The Misfortune of Pirates

By James Young

8. Savage Stars: The Venusian Incident

By Moze Howard

9. One If By Land: A Story from The Guardian Covenant

By Kevin Ikenberry

10. Once a Titan Mage
by Jacob Holo

Afterword

Other Anthologies

Also From Raconteur Press

Please, Tip Your Authors!

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

All stories are copyrighted to their respective authors and are used here with their permission

Published by Raconteur Press
www.raconteurpress.com

For more information contact production@raconteurpress.com

Co-edited by Spearman Burke and Chris DiNote

Copy Editing by Lisa Moore

Cover art and Illustration by Cedar Sanderson

Book formatting by Sanderley Studios

INTRODUCTION

DR. JAMES YOUNG

THE EDITOR RETURNS FOR A SECOND GENERATION…

You know, they say “A sequel will never equal…” I mean, the aphorism exists for a reason. Whether it’s a shark chasing a bunch of renegade teens on sailboats or a second unnecessary flick inexplicably filmed after the main actor died on set (RIP Brandon Lee), the second piece in a series usually bombs.

Guess what? We’re breaking trends today folks! Sure, Giant Freakin’ Robots! was so good Tangent Online recommended every last story (a feat not accomplished in 30+ years of publication). Of course it brought the mecha so hard aliens and leagues of villainy are falling all over themselves vowing not to attack Earth for the next millennia. Why, we were a handful of Kaiju and an Idris Elba away from [off screen shouting about how Raconteur cannot afford lawyers]…um, having a really great movie night.

Yet even with all that badassery, we can crank ye olde fusion reactor right up to eleven. Which is another way of saying, if you haven’t read Giant Freakin’ Robots!, you’ll still be super happy you bought this book. Why? Because we’ve got the hottest stories since some morally gray scientist kicked off an intergalactic war by banging shape shifted insectoid royalty (IYKYK). No, we haven’t brought Jack McKinney back from the grave, nor have we and denuded and entire planets of flowers critical to the dominant species’ wellbeing. What we do have is…

“His Majesty” Jacob Holo with “Once A Titan Mage.” Proving that while we don’t officially practice necromancy here at Raconteur, it would appear we certainly accept stories from “the dead.” *pause* For legal reasons, this is a joke. At the time of publication, Jacob wasn’t dead. But as readers of Giant Freakin’ Robots know, we make no guarantees about the 31st Century. Speaking of which…

Bryan Young, famous for his contributions to 31st Century Armored Warfare, has graciously provided us with his standalone story “Righteous Goliath.” Folks, this man doesn’t need particle cannons and long-range missiles to spin a good yarn, so check it out. Especially if you like to root for the good guys.

Oh, wait, there’s more “good guys” action with Kal Spriggs’ “Titanfall.” What do you do when it seems like the world’s going to end, your girlfriend’s got religion, and suddenly you’re living the teenager main protagonist life? Why you shut up, get in the robot, and put those video game skills to use!

Once you’re done with Kal’s story, Lee Allred’s busy saving New York City in “Such Giant Rude Invention,” while Kevin Ikenberry giving us a glimpse of ravenous aliens trashing it in “One If By Land.” While Philly sports fans are going to just enjoy watching the Big Apple get pummeled, both authors will have everyone on the edge of their seat with Humankind vs. Aliens action.

“Wait a second! The last antho had a lot more action off ye olde Terra! If I wanted to be stuck on Earth, I’d go read Hooves, Tracks, and Sabers.” Well, one, you should go read that after this anyway. But two, whether it’s visiting Bananarama’s favorite planet (“The Venusian Incident”) or fighting criminals at the edge of colonization (“The Misfortune of Pirates”), there’s plenty of extraterrestrial action as well.

So once again, grab your favorite adult beverage, restart the Asian pop music, and get ready to lose yourself in ten excellent stories.

JY

1 For legal reasons, this is a blatant falsehood. Or, at least, it is until some disguised alien rolls up to my booth at a con…

1

TITANFALL

BY KAL SPRIGGS

Iwas sixteen when the Titans fell to Earth.

You have to understand, at the time we thought Earth was doomed. Astronomers spotted the extra-solar asteroid only days before impact. It came in from the outer solar system, faster than any bullet, faster than anything humanity had ever built. When the astronomers first spotted it, they thought it was a “dark” comet. Then they realized that, with its speed, it must have come from outside our system, outside the Oort Cloud…and if it didn’t hit anything, it would have gone right on through our system, slung around by the Sun’s gravity and back into the depths of space.

Of course, then the models started pointing at just how close it would come to Earth. First it was one in a trillion chance to hit, then it was one in a billion.

About three days before hand, it became one in a hundred thousand…then one in ten.

And then they stopped talking about “chances” and “odds.” The governments of Earth scrambled to try and stop it, to deflect it, to break it up, to do something. And everyone else on Earth either watched in terror or started doing all the things that people do when the world is about to end.

I don’t know if they launched nukes at it or did some cool, top-secret astronaut mission to land on it, drill into it, and blow it in half. I was sixteen. I did what any sixteen year-old-boy in that situation would do: I skipped school and tried to get lucky with my girlfriend.

She wasn’t having any of it, of course. All the religious types at the time really hammered home the whole, “if you die today, where will you sit with God?” Being in Texas and her parents both being upright Christians, that meant going to church. They were determined to get the most of it they could if the world was about to end, so they went five times a day and I tagged along on the off chance that she decided there was anything else she wanted to do before we all died.

You know, like me.

Anyway, in between these rousing sermons about hellfire and brimstone, I hung over at their house while they blasted news about this thing. At the time they called it Nemesis. We didn’t start to call it anything else until much later. Nemesis, you know, because that’s not a name that’s going to put people into a biblical level of frenzy and terror.

Anyway, the news was about half coverage of the inbound doomsday rock and half coverage of cities going nuts with rioters, looters, and other awful things. Across the world–it didn’t matter what country–things broke down and they broke down quick.

That came to matter quite a bit in what happened after.

Anyway, we were a few minutes away from what was probably doomsday when the thing came apart. It didn’t explode, although at the speeds it traveled, it sure looked like it. It went from one huge, looming mass to thousands of smaller ones. No one knew then if it was something we had done here on Earth or what.

What we did know was that something had changed. Only, none of us, least of all me, had any clue how massive a change it really was.

Iwas watching it on TV, over at Julie’s house. It didn’t matter what channel or stream we watched, they all were pretty much showing the same thing, just with different people talking about it.

I listened with half an ear as the news anchors talked; their expressions strained and their eyes looked a little crazy:

“Now, Jane, we have someone on here from NASA saying that Nemesis has broken up. Doctor Johnson, can you tell us what this means? Is Earth saved?” I couldn’t help but notice that John the news anchor sounded a little disappointed.

“Well, John, we might be safe,”Doctor Johnson answered “It is really hard to tell with what we’re seeing. Each of those pieces are still quite big, some as big as office buildings, some even bigger than that.”

“One expert, a, uh, Doctor Wendel is saying that there’s an object as big as three hundred manatees. That’s quite large, right Doctor Johnson?” Jane asked him.

“Uh, yes, that’s fairly big, I think.” Doctor Johnson seemed taken off-guard by the question. “We can’t tell if all of them are coming to Earth, but they’re still traveling extremely fast. We are likely to lose satellites as those come closer and–” His voice and image went to static.

“Doctor? Doctor Johnson, are you still there?” John the newscaster had gone a bit wide eyed. “Uh–Jane, we seem to be having some technical difficulties.”

The camera went to Jane just as she wiped at a dusting of white powder on her nose, “What?”

“I think what this means is…”

The image cut to static. The video cut to a standby signal and then just static.

It was mid-afternoon, a sunny Texas day. This was it: this was the end.

“Want to go outside and watch it?” I asked her.

Her parents moved to the kitchen and knelt down and started to pray.

Julie looked at them, then at me, and then, without even acknowledging what I’d said, she went over and joined them in prayer.

I was sixteen years old, but something clicked in my head just then. I wasn’t going to go out on my knees. This might be the end of the world, but dammit, I wanted to see it coming.

I went out the sliding glass door and onto their back porch. The sun was high in the sky, but quite suddenly there was another sun, and another, bright flares of light, brighter than the day, bright enough that I dropped back, shielding my eyes.

And then there was a roar and a scream of air, like someone had opened the escape valve for hell itself, and a flare that I saw through my closed eyes. I could see the bones of my hand through my eyelids.

Then there was a roar and rumble and a hot blast of air picked me up and threw me into the neighbor’s pool.

I was blind and in the water and I couldn’t tell up from down or anything. I came to the surface, coughing water, sputtering, and trying to blink through the bright spots that felt burned into my eyes. I found the edge of the pool and levered myself out.

I could see houses were on fire. Columns of smoke and huge plumes rose all along the horizon. They looked like mushroom clouds, towering higher than I could imagine, dwarfing anything I had ever seen before.

Julie’s backyard was basically gone. Most of the houses on the street were on fire. The trees were on fire. I levered myself to my feet, dripping wet, coughing against smoke, and stumbling out of the wreckage to the highway behind Julie’s house.

Beyond it had been warehouses, and didn’t see a single standing building. What I did see was a huge mass of scorched metal, half-buried in a crater. The crater should have been bigger, I thought, or we all should have been dead. I didn’t know then what I know now about how we survived, how the impacts had merely been catastrophic instead of world-ending.

Then, because I was sixteen, and I was curious as hell, and I was somehow still alive, I decided to go and see what the hell this thing was.

It was easy enough to scramble over the broken chunks of pavement and jump over the crevices and cracks torn through the earth by the impact. Only as I got to the edge of the crater did I look around and have the height to see more.

There were other plumes of dust and debris rising up, towering from other collisions. In the near distance, I saw a helicopter circling one of those. I could hear police and fire department sirens, so I guessed the world hadn’t ended after all.

Up close, the mass of metal looked surprisingly angular. It was steaming hot: I could see pits and scars on it, but it didn’t look like an asteroid from the movies or the diagrams we’d seen on the news. Those looked like cratered potatoes. This looked–well, it looked like it had been made. And as I came closer, I could hear something, a bit like static on the radio when there was the edges of a song, one you couldn’t quite recognize, but it was kind of familiar.

I could feel the soles of my tennis shoes melting, the ground was that hot. I knew what I should do was turn around and go get help, maybe see if Julie was alright. I should go.

Instead, that strange noise, just on the edge of hearing, drew me closer. The static dropped and I could hear tones and notes, still right on the edge of my mind, but drawing me closer to a point on the object. The tones and sounds grew clearer, more distinct as I got closer. I forgot about my melting shoes and the smoke and the dust.

I forgot about Julie and I even forgot my teenage half-daydreams of pulling her out of the wreckage of her house and having her swoon in my arms.

All I could see, all I could hear, was that siren call.

Then, as I came up next to it, feeling the scale of it, feeling the mass of this thing, half-buried in the ground, steaming hot, cast at the Earth from outside the solar system, I did something really, really stupid.

I reached out and touched it.

All around the world, there were people like me doing the very same thing, thousands of us, though no one has an exact count. We were either the lucky survivors or, if you’re of religious background, the chosen spared in the immediate zones of destruction.

Those curious and brave enough to do so approached the impact sites, and heard the calls, too. The notes are on the edge of hearing that anyone can hear, or maybe just the right people–no one is truly sure even now.

It didn’t matter who we were before that moment. It didn’t matter if someone was a central African warlord, a Chinese dissident, an escaped supermax felon, or a sixteen year-old who just wanted to make it to second base.

In that moment, when I touched it, I awoke the Titan.

Systems that had been dormant for millions of years came to life. The Titan’s neural linkage connected with me. For a single moment I had a terrifying alien intelligence peeling back all the layers of my brain. In the next heartbeat, I was one with the Titan. It pulled me into it, opening up, reconfiguring and slotting me into a position inside its heart.

As it came to life, as it woke, I was the Titan.

I was Apollyon.

The Titan’s systems opened to me. Rising out of the crater of broken and fused dirt, I stood. I could feel rocks and chunks of debris rain down off my body, falling to earth. I was humanoid, a hundred feet or more tall, sharp-angled limbs, a V-shaped torso, and a shoulder-mounted weapon next to the sensors and scanners in my head.

I could see and sense a billion times better than my merely human senses. In the near distance, near the circling helicopter, I saw and sensed another Titan rising. To the south, near Houston’s downtown, I could see others rising, a skyscraper toppling as a Titan ripped free of the building.

In those first few seconds, it was like being reborn. Everything was new and bright and fresh. We’ve come to call it “Titan Euphoria.” I could think faster, I was stronger, I had weapons that could level a city block, and I had armor that protected me from cannons.

Julie. That was my first thought and I strode in the direction of her house. What had taken me minutes to cover before took me two strides and then I was there, over her house. I lifted the collapsed roof off. Below me, I saw her and her parents, screaming up at me, scrambling away from the huge, terrifying alien robot.

I understood that fear, though I didn’t see a reason for it. I was still me. I just also was a hundred-foot tall Titan able to lift the roof off of collapsed houses as if they were nothing.

I gently scooped them out of the rubble and set them down in the street in front of their wrecked house. It had been easy. I had helped them. I felt a surge of mingled pride and pleasure for it.

My sensors scanned the street, identifying other houses with trapped people and pulling off debris, gently lifting people out of the rubble, putting them places where emergency services could reach them. I was able to speak to them, too, as I worked, telling them it would be alright, that I was there to help. I don’t think any of them believed me, based on the screams of terror, but I tried.

I was in the middle of doing just that when I heard the gunfire start.

I looked over, my attention focusing with laser precision.

It came from south, nearer to downtown. I rose to my full height, Apollyon standing tall enough to see over buildings and the sensors able to penetrate the smoke and dust from the impacts and secondary fires.

An icon appeared, another Titan. Flaming Mantis. Alerts started up in my brain. Flaming Mantis’s weapons had begun to come online.

I started in that direction, spotting a half-dozen police vehicles. On the ground, no more than specks at this distance, I could see policemen firing up at Mantis, their bullets sparking off the Titan’s armor.

Mantis wasn’t as big as I was, only twenty feet tall or so, but that was still plenty big as it smashed through the side of a bank. A moment later it flung a vault door out through the front of the building. The heavy steel smashed through cars and into the next building.

I strode closer and now I could hear his bellows: “I am Flaming Mantis. You cannot stop me! You should cower before me, pigs!”

One of the cops had apparently a bit more firepower and opened up with a rifle. I’d give him an “A” for effort, except at that moment, Mantis decided to stop playing with them.

He opened up with energy beams and raked them through the street and across the police cars. I was still en route and all I could do was watch them die.

I felt a white hot rage form inside me and Apollyon’s weapon systems came online in response. Mantis’s pilot came out of the front of the bank, one arm dragging a dumpster filled with cash, the other arm raking the street with more energy weapons fire, shattering buildings and blasting cars to pieces.

I dropped a targeting reticule on Mantis and cued up a single shot. A lance of pure hellfire drove between us punching through the Titan’s Heart, vaporizing the bank robber, and smashing into the bank behind.

Mantis toppled and clattered to the street.

“Enhancement unlocked,” The notification appeared in my vision, accompanied by further alien notes like I had heard when I first went to touch the Titan.

I could feel a shift to the fusion lance in my shoulder. It shifted out, elongating. Parts of my shoulder armor shifted, pushing it higher. Power flooded into it, the systems shifting and reconfiguring. The fusion lance felt more powerful; my control of it felt sharper and I could lay a reticule to well over ten miles with ease.

I got up to where Mantis lay, toeing the downed Titan with one foot, checking to make sure it was down. All my systems told me that Mantis’s pilot was dead, though the smaller Titan seemed quiescent rather than destroyed.

I went over to where the flaming wreckage of the police cars lay. I stooped through, pulling the wounded survivors out of the wreckage. A couple of them shot at me; I ignored that. “I’m trying to help,” I assured them.

Only then, of course, I heard more weapons fire.

I reached out, finding police and National Guard radio frequencies. I thought that stuff was encrypted, but Apollyon delved through that encryption like it wasn’t there.

“Shots fired downtown. Does anyone have eyes on that thing?” I could hear someone shouting on the National Guard radio network. “It’s huge!”

“I’ve got eyes on. It just shrugged off my Ma Deuce, and–aw crap here it comes–” The talker cut off at the same time as I sensed energy weapons fire from the downtown area.

“I’ve got at least two more of these things in the Port area,” I heard on the police radio. “The one started smashing the place up and the other seems to be trying to protect us. If you see one with armor plates on the shoulders playing Laura Brannigan, leave that one alone. He’s friendly.”

I made note of that as well.

Then, because I could, I spoke over all the radio nets. “This is Apollyon. I just stopped one of the rogue Titans at the intersection of Crosstimbers and Fulton. I have terminated the pilot. The Titans all have human pilots, seated in the Titan’s Heart. That is their only vulnerability. I am headed down Interstate 45 to the downtown to deal with the hostile one there. I’m in the hundred foot tall one and I’m friendly.”

I strode in that direction using the open space of the freeway to take full strides. Any other day, the interstates would have been packed with cars, but most people had either fled the city already or stayed at home to await the end of the world. For the towering overpasses, I had to either find areas where the impacts, shock waves, and ground tremors had knocked them down so I could pass through, or gingerly pick my way over them.

The Titan was my body, its systems were extensions of me, every bit as much as I was a part of the Titan. I ran a hasty analysis as I moved in on the hostile targets.

I had the fusion lance, the hellfire gun that I took down Mantis, was a precision weapon, designed for long-distance engagement, with a single shot and a long cool-down. I had stutter lasers, designed to fire rapidly and ablate armor to line up a killing shot or to engage infantry. I had railguns, medium-weight kinetic penetrators which could damage or even destroy another Titan, though they had limited ammunition. Apollyon could assemble more, given raw materials, just as it could repair itself, though both would take time.

Alerts flashed through my mind on the status of other systems. My thrusters were damaged; the Titan had used those to slow its approach prior to reentry. That’s why we’re all still alive, the Titans executed braking maneuvers…

Apollyon provided me a full overlay of how the different Titans had executed a mix of atmospheric and thruster braking that had prevented them from wiping out our entire biosphere and merely caused destruction on a mass scale.

Why? I queried the Titan’s database. Why did you come? Who sent you? Who made you? If you could slow down somewhat, why not come slower so you didn’t cause panic, destruction, and chaos?

Apollyon didn’t answer. Everything from before the Titan had begun to come online, when Nemesis had broken apart was a blank slate. There was nothing in the Titan’s database about builders or an origin or anything. It simply was.

And as we reached the downtown, it had a purpose, mine, fused together to with a determination that whoever the jerk-wad pilot of the hostile Titans were, I was going to stop him.

I picked up weapons fire. There was more than one Titan downtown, now. Reaching out with my communications systems, I spoke. “This is Apollyon, to the other Titan pilots. Identify yourselves. Stand down. Let’s sort this out.”

“Hey kid, go stuff yourself,” a coarse voice laughed. “You wanna stop me, come get me.”

A woman’s voice laughed: “Okay, junior, go have playtime, we’re settling things.”

I saw explosions tear apart the side of the Juice Box, the sport stadium’s retractable roof falling as one whole side collapsed. “You jerks, I like baseball.”

“Don’t bother talking to them,” a third voice spoke to me, distorted by some sort of filter, I thought. “They’re nuts; they’re gunning down people in the streets.”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Call me Mongoose,” the voice answered. “These idiots are getting close to Saint Joseph’s Hospital, so if you’re really here to help, you’d better get down here.”

Crap. My mom worked at Saint Joseph’s. “I’m on the way. How will I know it’s you?”

Mongoose laughed. “I’ll be the one not shooting at you.”

That didn’t reassure me much, but I strode off the freeway, smashing up the pavement as I stalked into the downtown area, my sensors reaching out for threats.

I went past a burning line of military vehicles–National Guard soldiers, I assumed, killed by these hostile Titans. Not the Titans, the pilots.

I was near the corner of Texas Avenue and Louisiana Street, when a sixty-foot tall Titan stepped out in front of me about a quarter of a mile away. My Titan identified the other one, Wildfire.

I instinctively stopped. Wildfire raised one arm and fired into me.

Alarms rattled through my brain as railgun rounds slammed into my torso. “I told you to get lost, kid. Now I’m going to make you.”

I ducked to the side and the penetrator rounds smashed into the building behind me. The railgun rounds would keep going, I knew, punching through building after building until they hit something solid enough to stop them.

He kept firing, too: the rounds penetrated the buildings between us as he tracked my position with his sensors. Tungsten steel rounds slammed into my shoulders and side, sparking off the armor and making me stagger under the impacts.

I was going to get a lot of people killed if I let him keep this up–who knew how many were dying from the weapons fire already.

“It’s a new day. I’m gonna be king,” Wildfire’s pilot laughed. “You should have joined up, kid, maybe I would have let you live.”

The impacts were damaging my Titan and I didn’t have time for this. I pivoted, spinning my Titan so that I could bring my own weapons out in the open and return fire. I raised my arm, triggering my stutter lasers to down the street at Wildfire. The stutter lasers stripped armor off the other mech: the light lasers pocked the armor and caused him to temporarily cease fire as he covered himself.

As I started to bring my fusion lance up, he brought both arms up and opened fire.

Thousands of railgun rounds spewed forth, fired at an insane rate. He didn’t even aim them, scything the fire back and forth as he laughed, shredding buildings and everything before him. I ran away, the tungsten penetrators sparking and flaring as they hit, staggering me and sending me falling into the side of a building before I could go on.

Behind me, dust and smoke rose from wreckage and debris of buildings as they toppled under the weapons fire as Wildfire spewed the railgun fire along behind me.

He was killing thousands, maybe tens of thousands of people. I had to stop him. It didn’t matter if I survived.

My thrusters were still an angry shade of red. I didn’t care: I triggered them and I rose on an unsteady plume of fire, popping up high as Wildfire continued to sweep his railguns through at street level. For a moment, I hung there above him. I had all the time in the world to line up the shot, even as he started to realize that this was a three-dimensional fight.

My fusion lance fired from my shoulder. The hellfire beam drove down, punching through the armor that my stutter lasers had damaged. The beam punched through the Titan’s Heart and into the ground behind. As the alerts from my thrusters went critical, I crashed down onto the street in front of the cored Titan. I didn’t stick the landing and stumbled into a parking garage, causing parts of it to collapse.

“Enhancement unlocked,” the notification appeared in my vision, accompanied by further alien notes, much like I had heard when I first went to touch the Titan.

Systems of Apollyon came online that hadn’t been there before. The self-healing armor continued its work, but the very body of the Titan shifted: the damaged thrusters reconfigured, shifting from the simple, brute force thrusters into something far more sophisticated. The Titan’s repair systems prioritized their repair, shifting the thrusters’ status from red to amber far more rapidly than I would have thought possible.

Wildfire stood there, arms still at extension, heat still blasting from the Titan’s railguns and through the hole I had blasted in it. I rose up to my feet, strode down, and casually pushed the incapacitated Titan down, the ground shuddering under the impact as the Titan fell.

I could see the downed Titan already repairing itself. With its pilot dead, it would lie idle…until it repaired and a new pilot claimed it.

“Junior…did you do something naughty?” I heard the woman’s voice behind me and I realized I had been still for too long.

As I spun, the other Titan came right at me, exploding out of a cloud of electromagnetic jamming and driving a blade straight at my Heart.

Banshee. I identified the other Titan even as I managed to just barely get two hands up to catch the driving blade. The impact drove me back fifty yards or more. Then she brought her other arm in, driving another blade down, speared through armor and into the shoulder joint of my Titan, leaving that arm useless.

“Naughty, naughty, Junior. I liked him,” Banshee laughed kicking me in the chest and sending my Titan stumbling back into the face of a building. As I went back the jamming lashed out at me, blinding my sensors and driving into my brain, a noise of chaos and discordant notes that left me off-balance and reeling.

I tried to fire at her, but none of my targeting systems worked. I couldn’t even really see her.

I fired my stutter lasers anyway, filling the street in front of me with laser fire just to try and buy myself some time and space.

“Oh, that stings. You have a widdle waser beam, how precious,” Banshee laughed. “Oh, you’ll be the second Titan I kill! The last time I got these lovely daggers, I wonder what I’ll get next?”

I rolled up out of the wreckage of the building and limped away from the jamming, still triggering the stutter lasers in that direction, hoping I wasn’t killing innocent people in the process.

Banshee’s signals still drove into my brain and I felt like it was ripping my head apart. I couldn’t shut it out, though: her voice and the discordant chaos were like acid, eating their way through my mind, even as she prowled after me, her voice mocking.

“I wonder if I get more enhancements for killing you fast or slow? I took down that first in one quick blow. The poor darling never saw me coming.” Banshee’s hollow laughter echoed through my brain, even as I continued to fire blindly at where I thought she was coming.

I guessed that meant that Mongoose wasn’t going to be coming to help me.

My thrusters were back online. I triggered them, driving myself up, hoping to get clear of her jamming and get a shot.

“Oh, pop goes the weasel,” she laughed. Targeted lasers lashed out, driving into the thrusters on my shoulders and legs and then I fell.

The impact nearly killed me. I’d landed in Sam Houston Park, digging a sixty-foot-wide trench for most of the length of it and finally coming to a rest half-in, half-out of Buffalo Bayou. I sat up, brown muddy water pouring off my armor, steaming here and there from the spots where I’d been hit.

All my weapon systems had gone offline. Repair systems were going, but I had water flooding parts of my fusion lance, I had mud and debris clogging my railguns, and my stutter lasers were flashing all kinds of colors of alerts at me. My right arm was still non-functional from the blade she had driven through the shoulder.

“Oh no, did you fall down?” Banshee laughed in a sing-song voice. “Here, momma’s going to come and help you out–don’t worry sweetie pie.”

Banshee slunk out of the buildings. Without her jamming online, she looked tall and thin, like a spider and a skeleton had some messed-up love-child. I could see the two medium lasers mounted on her shoulders and the long, stiletto daggers extending and retracting from the hands of her Titan and as she skulked forward.

If I had had anything to shoot at her, I would have done it. Banshee looked relatively frail compared to me, with angular armor plates designed to deflect fire rather than stop it. A single good hit with my railguns would have stopped her. Even my stutter lasers must have been enough of a threat to keep her at bay…until now, of course.

She came to a stop, standing over me as I struggled to lever myself up. I kicked out a leg at one of hers, but she sidestepped and drove one of her daggers down into the knee of my Titan. I felt that and I bit back a scream as she twisted the dagger in the joint of my knee, alerts and pain feeding back into me.

“I would tell you that next time, when the adults say to go play hero elsewhere, you should do it. Except there isn’t going to be a next time. I’m going to show everyone,” she waved up at the circling helicopter, “Just what happens to those who go against Banshee. Then, I’m going to find a nice replacement for Wildfire, maybe some escaped prisoner or a crack-head, and I’m going to go have some more fun. How does Queen of Houston, sound?”

On my sensors, I caught motion behind her. I wasn’t sure what it was as my sensors were too damaged, but it looked low to the ground. Maybe the National Guard had brought in a tank. One could only hope.

“Houston’s Whore has a lot more alliteration,” I told her. “You should go with that.”

She continued to twist the dagger in my knee, and this time I did scream. “Ah, such a funny little child. Before this, I was weak. Now, I can take whatever I want.”

“Going to be really hard to do that when you’re dead,” I told her.

Behind her, the movement I had seen resolved itself. A low-slung Titan exploded out of cover, long and sleek, almost snake-like in motion. The Titan was far longer than it was tall, yet its short, powerful legs drove it with speed that had to be seen to be believed.

Banshee started upright as Mongoose hit her from behind. Mongoose went up her back, strong claws latching on and levering the Titan up so that powerful jaws could latch onto Banshee’s torso. Then, Mongoose’s powerful jaws clenched on Banshee’s torso and the smaller Titan began to shake Banshee like a rat.

I could hear Banshee scream and curse in anger at first, then the jaws clamped down tighter and Banshee’s pilot screamed in pain and terror. The other Titan pilot didn’t let up: the mechanical jaws clenched tighter and tighter. Metal screamed, Banshee’s voice cut out, and then Mongoose shook her some more for good measure.

I slowly brought myself upright. My repair systems were starting to go to work. Mongoose kept shaking Banshee well past the point that I thought really necessary, then she shook the fallen Titan some more, the spidery limbs flopping about.

“Bitch didn’t know when to shut up,” Mongoose told me as she finally finished, her voice still distorted, but sort of vaguely female.

“Jaws, huh?” I asked.

Mongoose looked up at me. The Titan was about fifty or sixty feet long, about twenty feet tall, and looked sort of like someone had taken a mechanical slinky, given it legs, really mean looking jaws, and claws that looked like they could squeeze water out of rocks. “Yeah, some of us didn’t get endowed with nice stuff like hundred-foot-tall height and railguns and all that fancy stuff. I’m low, I’m sneaky, and I’m mean–you got a problem with it?”

“No, no–thanks for the assistance,” I told her.

“Oh, hang on…I’m getting some kind of notifications…oooh.”

I waited, watching as my self-repair systems slowly brought me back to fighting status. I could tell it would be hours or days, maybe even weeks, before the Titan went to full capacity. I focused the Titan’s repair systems on the critical areas even as I wondered if I needed to think that far ahead.

I spent the time monitoring the different networks. The news chopper had us up on local television and I waved at it. Someone was calling us heroes and I stood a little straighter at those words. I mean, I had been trying to save people, after all. A talking head on the TV started talking about damages and making us pay for all the destruction.

I was rather less happy about that part.

“Okay, this is interesting,” Mongoose told me.

“What’s that?” I asked. My stutter lasers had started to come online and I felt some relief that I wasn’t entirely unarmed. I put repair priority towards my left knee, wanting mobility over anything else at this point.

“Killing another Titan seems to unlock upgrades–well, enhancements,” Mongoose told me, her voice still distorted, though I could hear the excitement in her voice.

“Yeah, when I took down Mantis, my fusion lance reconfigured and when I took down Wildfire, the same thing happened with my thrusters,” I tested my knee and it held my weight a bit better, though I still didn’t trust it.

“Huh, I saw you do your little rocket man stunt with your thrusters. Good thing Wildfire’s pilot was a moron or you would have been a perfect target while you were up there,” Mongoose laughed. “Let me guess, you sniped this…Mantis fellow?”

“Yeah, he was robbing a bank,” I answered, “I pot-shot him through his Titan Heart.”

“Nice…” Mongoose answered. She circled around the downed Banshee. “Well, these enhancements are definitely linked to how we take them down. I got her through ambush with my jaws. I was hoping when it said enhancement that I’d get some fancy weapon systems, maybe some kind of, you know, death ray or something.”

“What did you get?” I asked.

Mongoose’s jaws opened, and I saw that the jaw looked significantly reinforced. “You get fusion sniper mode and aerial thrusters and I got even more bitey.” I could hear the disgust in Mongoose’s tone. “Ah, well. At least we’re both alive, so there’s that. How’s the leg?”

“Better,” I admitted. I took a limping stride and it held my weight. “The repair systems are something else.”

“Yeah, though all it takes is a hit in the right spot and its lights out…though this thing is still repairing,” she went over and slammed her Titan’s tail into the arm of Banshee.

I still detected weapons fire to the south. “There’s a pair or more of Titans fighting it out down at the Port.”

“Yeah, and this thing and Wildfire are both just one more psycho pilot away from us having to fight all over again,” Mongoose pointed out.

I called over the National Guard net and the police radio bands. “This is Apollyon, the downed Titans need to be guarded. They’ll self-repair and take a new pilot, and fighting these ones down will have been useless if someone bad gets inside them.”

“Alright, Apollyon,” I heard a gruff voice. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Adams, Texas National Guard. What is your status?”

“I’m damaged,” I told him. I queried Mongoose who responded with a whatever. “Myself and Mongoose are going to go to the Port and try to get things under control there. There’s a downed Titan, Mantis…”

“An EMT touched it and is now piloting it,” Lieutenant Colonel Adams answered. “So, we kind of figured out that this is a thing. Are you the mechs in Sam Houston Park?”

“Yeah, I’m the big one that took out Wildfire earlier,” I told him.

“You got your ass kicked by that spidery one. Good thing the other one was there, what’s his name?” Adams asked.

“Mongoose,” I answered.

Another voice interjected: “This is Deputy Police Chief Louis Jackson. Your cute code-names don’t change anything. You do realize you’re going to have to come out of those things, right, kid? We’ve got wreckage all over town, there are thousands dead. There will be investigations and trials. You’re facing charges of criminal negligence, manslaughter, wanton destruction of property…”

“Uh, look Louis,” I told him, “if I hadn’t stopped Wildfire and Banshee, they were going to kill everyone in their path and set themselves up as the rulers of Houston, maybe over all of Texas.”

“We’re not talking about them, we’re talking about you. You have a choice, kid, you need to surrender yourself…”

“Yeah, I don’t have time for this, dude. There’s still at least one Titan tearing up the port. So how about you go do whatever it is you normally do, shuffle some paperwork around on your desk, and let me talk to that Adams guy–he was helpful.”

I heard Adams laughing on the radio and Deputy Police Chief Louis Jackson sputtered a bit. “Look, Colonel, my systems are more or less functional. Mongoose and I are going to the port. Do you have any advice?”

“Having been in the thick of it before,” Adams told me, “Trust in God and keep your powder dry.”

“Uh, thanks,” I told him.

I didn’t have any powder and I didn’t really understand that part. The trusting in God thing, well, I didn’t know if the God that Julie and her parents had prayed to really existed.

Adams laughed again, “Saint Michael, patron saint of paratroopers go with you, Apollyon.”

My mom was Catholic, though mostly I’d just sort of ignored all that. I didn’t know that there was a patron saint for things like that. “I wouldn’t turn down the help,” I told him and then I started limping south.

We had a lot of ground to cover. Thankfully, my long strides covered distance quick and Mongoose was remarkably fast, darting ahead of me on her stumpy legs and pausing to scout, before continuing on.

We passed another downed Titan, this one ripped up by railgun fire. Ironwasp. Further down the street, I saw another, this one cut nearly in half, presumably by Banshee’s close combat strike. Devildog.

I sent the locations of the two Titans to the National Guard.

“What happened with them?” I asked Mongoose.

“I wouldn’t worry about either of them,” Mongoose told me. “The idiot driving Devildog got into a fight with Wildfire about who could kill more cops. Ironwasp might have been trying to stop them, I’m not really sure, but you can see he didn’t last very long.”

I supposed not.

This made five Titans in the downtown area, two up north, and another two, at least, out west by the port. Nine of us, and the city was torn up. I didn’t want to think about how many people were dead downtown, or about the damage that Wildfire had done just in fighting me.

What chaos would be happening worldwide? There were thousands of Titans. I couldn’t pull up an exact number, but the telemetry data from Apollyon’s reentry told me that there were hundreds just coming down over the United States.

I had already seen riots, protests, and chaos on the news…what was going on with giant mecha stalking the cities, driven by the will of whatever person managed to link to one?

My knee finished repairs and my other systems started to knit themselves back together. I took longer, faster strides, though I had to slow again at the towering highway overpasses and find my way through.

Whatever was going on at the Port of Houston and Galveston Bay, we needed to resolve it. I could feel in my bones that this was only the beginning.

We came out of the downtown and moved along State Highway 225. I stepped over a National Guard checkpoint as Mongoose went around. I guess Adams had got the message out that we were friendly, because no one shot at us as we went past. I gave them a friendly wave and a couple of the soldiers waved back.

“You nerd,” Mongoose laughed at me.

I ignored her, walking on, picking up the pace as the repairs made me more and more combat-ready.

I could sense weapons discharges in at least two areas and I could see plumes of smoke rising from several spots in and around the Port. There were fires, too, and I really hoped the natural gas stuff over there didn’t blow up. I didn’t know what that would do to a Titan, but I didn’t think it would be good.

We came across the first wreckage of the battle at a big truck-stop, with blazing plumes of flame rising from the gas pumps and burning tanker trucks. There were dozens of bodies scattered around. I felt a hot anger worming through my stomach.

“Attention, Titan pilots, this is Apollyon,” I announced. “Stand down. We have already destroyed several hostile Titans.”

“So much for the element of surprise,” Mongoose sighed. “You do know that announcing our presence is a really good way to get killed, right? Some of us don’t have long range weapons.”

“Apollyon,” a gruff voice grumbled, “this is Foxfire. I could use a hand. Up, hold on…”

I heard a thud-thud-thud, and I saw explosions rip through a section of container yard. “Dammit, I missed. Look, there’s at least three smaller, fast bastards. I think I got a piece of one of them earlier, but they’re not the real threat. The real threat is…”

His voice cut out in a squeal of static as one of the Titans out there started jamming.

“Great,” Mongoose growled, “we’re looking for at least three little ones–you ready for this?”

“Yeah,” I told her. My railguns were back online and my fusion lance was almost operational. My shoulder wasn’t one hundred percent, but I had some mobility to it, at least.

“This is really dumb,” Mongoose pointed out. “The smart thing would be to fall back, let the National Guard roll in with tanks and artillery and helicopters…”

“Do they have that stuff?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah, man,” Mongoose assured me.

“How many of the people in there,” I waved an arm at the Port, “get killed? How many soldiers die when the Titans fight back?”

“Yeah, I figured you’d say that,” Mongoose sighed. “Alright, let’s go. Try to soak up as much of their firepower as you can, alright? Remember, I’m not stocked with long range firepower.”

“I got it,” I assured her.

We went in.

The Port was dense with warehouses, container stacks, and further by the water, tall cranes and big cargo ships. Most of the oil tanks and tankers were on the other side of San Jacinto Bay, so hopefully we weren’t going to get blown up just by going into the port.

We went past a pile of burning wreckage. The jamming grew stronger as we drew closer to the container stacks. As we came up on the side, my sensors picked up movement and I turned, just as a four-limbed Titan climbed along the side of a grain silo and fired at me.

I dodged as the medium lasers cut through the air where I had been. A sustained line of fire cut across my vision: the infrared laser ionized the air in its passage as the Titan swept its laser towards me. I registered its name, Cryptghoul, as it tried to kill me.

I fired back, lancing it with stutter lasers as it clambered along the tall concrete silos. I must have scored some hits because the Titan cut its fire and dropped out of sight behind a warehouse. I started to go in pursuit, except Mongoose shouted a warning to me.

I turned and another small Titan slammed into me from the side. I saw whirring blades come for my Titan Heart and I frantically tried to fend them off with my arms. The impact of the Titan drove me back, off the highway and into the big power lines on the side of the freeway. One moment I was getting tangled, and the next moment a hundred and fifty thousand volts of electricity drove into me.

The power arcs drove me to my knees, still tangled in the high-tension power lines, pulling them down with me, agony flitting through my body as my systems went haywire and pain lanced through my brain. It took everything I had to stumble forward and rip free of the lines. My limbs shuddered as I crawled away.

Of course, at that point, the Titan that had attacked me came in again. I caught its identity as it came at me: TenDrill. I might have laughed at the pun, except for the fact that it was trying to rip out my innards with its ten different drill-tipped limbs.

It dove for my chest. I barely managed to get one arm up in time to stop it. It was only thirty feet tall, but with me on my side, it had plenty of advantages. Whirring blades and drills on tentacle-like arms extended at me, lashing against the armor of my arm and sending up sparks from my chest plate when they managed to reach. “I’m going to drill you, then I’m going to drill your little girlfriend,” TenDrill laughed.

I managed to get my other arm on the smaller Titan and sat up. That let me hold it away from me at full arm extension. “Oh, to hell with you,” I snapped. I was a hundred-foot tall behemoth–I wasn’t letting this octopus freak kill me.

I clenched my armored fingers through the Titan’s hull, grabbing handfuls of its innards and pulling hard. I heard TenDrill shriek as my arms strained. Drill bits hit and lanced at me, trying to stop me, but the motions had gone panicked rather than confident.

I felt the arms of my Titan groan under the strain and then I heard a shriek as TenDrill’s central core gave way. Parts of it exploded everywhere and the lashing arms went still. I flung the parts of it clear and then heard “Enhancement unlocked.” My arms locked up as my Titan started to upgrade them. “This really isn’t the time,” I muttered, unable to move while huge sections of my arm systems shifted around, half seated and unable to get to my feet.

“You’re dead,” Cryptghoul hissed from behind me. He looked a bit like a mechanical baboon as it scuttled out from cover, moving fast on four limbs, then transitioning to two while it looked around for threats. It drew closer while I sat, helpless. It dropped its forelimbs down, latching into the concrete road surface to brace itself as its laser powered up. Half seated as I was, I had no way to move out of his way in time.

Mongoose leapt on him at that moment. Her foreclaws latched onto his medium laser and her rear claws onto his torso and she ripped the weapon right off his back. As he screamed in agony, she drove her impressive jaws down into the hole she’d torn into his back. I heard a rather unpleasant crunch and then Cryptghoul dropped, the ugly Titan still.

Alerts went across my mind, though, as a third Titan emerged, this one forty feet tall and just as wide, built like a fireplug. I identified it as Hammerer, even as I picked up its arrays of rail guns. Hammerer stopped, and in slow motion, its oversized arms leveled on us, dozens of railguns humming to life as the stocky mech prepared to fire. I knew neither Mongoose nor I were going to be able to engage it in time.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even flinch. Then I heard a sharp thud-thud-thud. Three slow-moving rounds slammed into the side of Hammerer. The three projectiles detonated in quick succession, painfully hot green fire exploded out from the detonations. Hammerer turned, stumbling from the impact.

Foxfire came at the injured Titan. Foxfire brought its other arm and let off another burst of the rounds, these slammed into the inside of Hammerer’s shoulder. The rounds detonated a moment later, and Hammerer staggered as its left arm blew off. As the mech stumbled to its knees, Foxfire leveled both of his arm-mounted weapons and delivered three round bursts into the Titan from at a range of less than a hundred feet.

The shattered wreckage of Hammerer toppled back, the Titan Heart shattered and the pilot incinerated.

“Hiya, kids, you might want to keep alert,” Foxfire told us. “Three-sixty security. Oh, hey, that’s nice, a little system upgrade coming online. Glad y’all could help me deal with the ‘Crystal Methodists’”

“The what, now?” I asked. My systems unlocked enough for me to get to my feet. This enhancement thing might be nice and all, but it locking me down mid-combat like that was liable to get me killed.

“A lovely set of siblings who did rather more of the illicit substances than they should. They were in the middle of prison transport when the Titans fell out of the sky. I was in the car behind them when the dust all settled. They were wearing Titans and causing mayhem, so I figured I needed to do the same to stop them. Been leading me on a doozy of a chase.”

My brain was still struggling to keep up with what he was saying even as my Titan’s systems decided to cue me in on what had changed.

I focused on my right hand and saw that it had reconfigured, with a thought, it shifted around and the fingers folded out of the way as a thick projection stuck out perpendicular to my forearm.

I toggled the new addition’s power online and a fifty-foot long pillar of plasma projected out, a hovering blade of energy that crackled and ignited the grass under my feet.

“Energy blade engaged,” my Titan notified me.

“Oh…hell yeah,” I grinned.

“Are you freaking kidding me?” Mongoose demanded. “You get a laser sword?”

“What did you get?” I asked.

Mongoose turned her head and stutter lasers fired out of her eyes, “I get a couple pop-guns, you get a laser sword…”

“Plasma, I think,” I corrected her, “though if I understand what it’s doing right, it does use lasers to ionize the air, magnetic fields to generate containment–”

“The cowboy over here shoots nuclear footballs,” Mongoose went on. “This is some bullshit.”

I spotted a ship moving on the San Jacinto Bay, only it wasn’t a ship. I looked closer, seeing that it was mostly underwater. A submarine?

“Hey, kiddos, now I don’t want to rain on the parade, but we got some problems. The ‘Crystal Methodists’ were just one problem, and a minor one. About the time that I caught up with them, the real problem showed up. We sort of drove it off because all of us were shooting at it, but…”

The big form started coming out of the water and the scale of it made my brain start to hurt.

“Tier Three Titanform detected,” the voice spoke to all of us. Not wanting to attract the newcomer’s attention, I extinguished my energy blade.

It was big, with broad shoulders as wide as one of the barges on the bay. It had a hunched form, like that of a gorilla, with massive, powerful arms that swept down, smashing stacks of containers as it came up out of the water.

My Titan identified it: Abomination. Alarms and alerts went through my brain as I picked out weapons emplacements. The thing rose over the Port of Houston and just kept getting bigger.

“Monkeys. I friggin’ hate monkeys,” Foxfire grumbled.

I didn’t know if the thing had seen us or even noticed us. It was at least three hundred feet tall, still coming out of the water, and swatting containers, buildings, vehicles and everything else out of its way. Rivers of mud and water rained down from it and a surge of water from the bay swept ahead of it, pushed along by its bulk.

“It does sort of look like a big gorilla,” Mongoose said. “A really big gorilla.”

“Everything’s bigger in Texas,” Foxfire sighed. “Even the damned monkeys.”

I heard Lieutenant Colonel Adams call out on the National Guard radio net. “Uh, Apollyon, are you still there?”

I realized that the three of us hadn’t moved. “Yeah, yeah–we’re still here.”

“We got a couple F-22s off the ground at Ellington Field. They’re saying there’s something really big there at the Port, tearing shit up–is that you?”

I watched as Abomination drove one squat rear leg through a container ship, cutting the vessel in half and punching its rear leg deep into the mud of the harbor. Its size and weight slowed the thing down. Maybe that would give us a chance.

I didn’t know how it even had hidden in the water of the bay, most of the bay was only ten feet deep. It must have sunk into the mud under its own weight, or maybe even burrowed down out of sight.

“Negative, that’s not us,” I answered. “It’s something big–‘Tier Three’ is all I know. It’s got a lot of weapons.”

“Well, the Air Force wants to give it a go, so keep your head down,” Lieutenant Colonel Adams told us.

“Lookie here, sir,” Foxfire spoke up, “that’s not a good idea. This thing has more guns than a cartel safe house and, looking at the thing, it’s like a skyscraper and a fortress decided to have revenge sex. I don’t think the pee-shooters on a F-22 will do the trick.”

“Not my say,” Adams told us. “They’ve already been given authorization to engage.”

“Shee-it,” Foxfire growled. “We need to get into cover, because that thing doesn’t discriminate with its engagements.

Foxfire was about fifty feet tall, though somewhat hunched, with a long, triangular head and a tail to counterbalance. I didn’t know if he had other weapons besides the bomb projectors, but he was going to find it easier to take cover, seeing as he was half my height.

Looking around, I saw that Mongoose had already gone to ground and I stomped in the opposite direction, heading for the grain silos that Cryptghoul had clambered up.

I didn’t pick up the F-22 as it did its attack run, though I picked up the bombs as they dropped. The aircraft was seriously high up and out, to judge by when and where I picked up its gliding bombs.

Abomination must have spotted those as well. I picked up stutter lasers firing from its back: the bombs exploded mid-air, miles clear of it. A moment later, a fusion lance on its back fired. I picked up a matching detonation thirty miles away as it scythed F-22 out of the air. A second weapon on its back, then a third one fired. I picked up more explosions even further out as it swatted aircraft out of the sky.

“Foxfire, have you tried to talk to it?” I asked.

“I friggin’ hate monkeys. No, I didn’t try to talk to Kong’s mechanized big brother–are you serious?” Foxfire demanded.

I restrained a sigh. I called out to the big Titan on all frequencies, projecting my voice as well: “Attention, Abomination. This is Apollyon. Stand down. I say again, stand down. There’s no need for hostilities.”

“Apollyon, you’d be one of those little roaches that I saw scattering in front of me, then?” A man laughed. “I’ll tell you what, Apollyon. Here’s your one chance. This is a new day. A new world. The Titans have given people like us power. It’s a world where the Titans are power.”

“Uh, sure, sure,” I answered, rolling my eyes. “Look, how about you just park that thing, hop out, and we talk this all over?”

He laughed. “You think I’m crazy? Do you have any idea the sensors I have on this thing? Do you think I’m the only one in a Tier Three? There are monsters out there, carving the world into their own little kingdoms. If not me, then someone else is going to do that here. I’m just trying to get my little slice of the pie, kid.”

“How many people do you normally kill trying to get pie?” I asked.

The laughter didn’t stop, “You gotta break a few eggs to make an omelet.”

I was watching Foxfire as he shifted along, moving from the cover of one warehouse to another, staying low, while Abomination addressed me. I didn’t see Mongoose anywhere, but I hoped that she was out there somewhere doing something sneaky and not running for the hills like anyone sane would be doing right now.

“Are we having omelet or pie?” I asked. “I’m really confused. Look, how about you just hang out here at the Port. There’s a really nice Deputy Chief of Police. This guy’s name is Louis. I’m sure he will want to talk to you about city ordinances…”

A fusion lance punched through the side of the grain silo right next to me, igniting the grain dust. A moment later, I picked myself up off the ground. Smoke, dust and debris were everywhere. I hadn’t known grain silos were explosive.

“Grain dust particulates in the air ignited by the heat of the fusion lance shot,” my Titan informed me. I wish I had known of that earlier or I wouldn’t have shot at Cryptghoul when he was on it or used it for cover.

There were damage alerts all over my Titan, though most of them seemed to be minor things. I’d lost a lot of armor integrity from impacts to my rear. I could guess why.

“I’m done talking,” Abomination growled. “The other Tier Threes, they’re starting to consolidate power. I need to know if you’re with me, or if I need to core your Titan out and replace you. So, what is it, boy?”

I rolled over. Abomination had lumbered closer. Its huge limbs punched through the concrete and pavement of the container yards and roads, flinging massive chunks of pavement and soil into the air with its tremendous gait.

It was almost right over me. I could see enormous, overlapping armored plates along those limbs and its torso. The squat head mounted batteries of bomb projectors, railguns, and fusion lances. This thing could level an entire city or wipe out an army. It had just shot three military aircraft out of the sky, none of which I had been able to even detect.

Trying to fight it was probably the stupidest thing I could do.

I thought about my mom, probably still working in the emergency room at Saint Joseph’s Hospital. I thought about Julie and her parents, who for all I knew were praying for God to save them.

I thought about all the damage that Banshee and Wildfire had done, and magnified that by the scale of Abomination.

“You know,” I told him, “what I really needed was a boss-fight to test out my new upgrades.”

I rolled to my feet, far more graceful than Abomination expected and I opened up on him with my stutter lasers and railguns. I fired all of into the Titan’s face, where most of his guns seemed to be mounted. I wasn’t expecting to knock him out, but I hoped I might get some lucky shots through and damage the guns.

I kept moving as I fired, knowing that if I stopped for even a second, I was as good as dead.

Weapons fire lashed back at me. Railguns threw up huge columns of dirt as they hit. A fusion lance drove past me so close that my armor glowed from the residual heat.

To the side, Foxfire emerged from hiding, his bomb projectors firing as he ran forward.

Abomination roared in defiance. Guns, lasers, and cannons ripped out in all directions. A railgun clipped my torso, sending me staggering and blasting off a huge chunk of armor, leaving my torso exposed. One more hit like that and I was done for.

I lined up a shot on its torso with my fusion lance and fired. The shot struck armor, blasting a crater, but not much more than that.

One massive foreleg came around in a sweep that would have cut me in half if I hadn’t ducked in time. The wind of its passage ripped the roofs off of warehouses and sent cars and trailers flipping in its wake.

I was underneath Abomination now, and shifted power to my right hand. My energy blade sprang into life. I continued to fire upwards at Abomination as I swung my blade into its other foreleg. The blade hit the armored ankle joint, and sparks exploded in all directions.

Foxfire fired into it from below, bombs detonated in painfully bright green fire all along the Titan’s torso.

The Tier Three Titan ripped its foreleg upwards. The ground heaving and sent me stumbling backwards as Abomination reared onto its hind legs. Weapons, swung down to face us. I had a moment, even as I continued to fire, that I knew we were both dead.

Mongoose hit him in that moment as Abomination reared back, with all its weight focused on the rear legs. I saw her come out of nowhere, latching onto one towering rear leg with her claws and clamping down on the Titan’s knee joint with her powerful jaws.

Abomination let out a horrid bellow of pain…and then that leg gave way under his colossal bulk. He fell backwards and to the side, hit the ground hard, a mountain of alien metal alloys driving through concrete, dirt, and steel. I could see armor plates buckle and joints burst under that impact.

Mongoose had jumped clear, but now leapt back in, latching onto a swinging limb and tearing into it with her jaws.

Foxfire and I went in, firing. My fusion lance drove into gaps in the armor while I swung my blade and fired my other weapons into it from point blank. Abomination tried to raise his head, to get its weapons where they could hit us. I stepped forward, my energy blade at full extension and drove up into the joint between its head and torso. Sparks and molten metal exploded from the impact. I drove the blade deep and dragged it around, severing power lines and control nodes, destroying the neck joint and almost severing the Titan’s head.

Abomination was screaming or crying, I wasn’t sure which, and I didn’t dare give him the opportunity to recover. As he struggled to rise again, his torso came up out of the crater he had smashed into the ground, leaving behind the armor that had torn off from the impact. Mongoose, Foxfire, and I opened up, driving fire into the vulnerable, damaged torso of the colossal Titan.

I fired my railguns dry, fired my stutter lasers until they overheated, and cycled my fusion lance until alerts sounded like it was ready to explode.

Green fire exploded around and inside the holes I had blasted. Mongoose’s laser eyes fired into those holes for good measure…and then Abomination collapsed back and lay still.

We stood there, the ground smoking, debris trailing down from the explosions and detonations.

“I friggin’ hate monkeys,” Foxfire muttered.

“Yeah, I’m not a big fan of them anymore, either,” I told him.

Abomination was dead. We had saved Houston. Yet his words remained with me. This was one city, one tiny part of the world as a whole. There were thousands of Titans out there.

I wanted to think that most people were decent. Most people wouldn’t go all murder-conquest–right?

Even if most didn’t, there would be some that would. They, like the ones here in Houston, would need to be stopped. Someone, someone armed with a Titan, would need to be the one to stop those people.

“Enhancement Unlocked,” I felt the chime of alien notes. I could see that my new friends had similar messages from how they froze into place as our Titans began to upgrade.

“So,” I said to the other two, “do y’all have any plans for tomorrow?”

2

SUCH GIANT RUDE INVENTION

BY LEE ALLRED

Schriever Space Force Base

Near Colorado Springs, Colorado

Schriever’s Worry Hole stank of unwashed bodies, unfinished trays of chow hall sludge, and doomsday. Satellite feeds on the wall-to-wall monitors told the story. Beijing was gone. Shanghai was gone. The Three Gorges Dam was gone. And the alien’s 300-foot tall construct was still there–unscathed and rampaging its merry way across China’s Hainan Island.

“What do we do?” a haggard tech sergeant asked, eyeing Lieutenant General Armbruster’s empty desk. Nuclear exchanges come and go, but military procedure is eternal.

Armbruster should be the one conducting the Presidential SITREP, holding the POTUS’s hand, answering the unanswerable questions. Alas, Old Iron Pants had collapsed in his traces, clutching his chest as the missiles rained down. After experiencing the wonderful world of defib, they’d had to carry the stricken three-star up Topside to the ER.

Armbruster’d either recover to be medically retired and receive his consolation up-and-out fourth star as sweetener, or he’d get a personalized VA headstone as part of his own private Arlington Cemetery soirée.

Assuming Arlington was still around in coming days.

“Thirty seconds,” a female Spec Three comm tech warned.

Major Andrew Lamb rubbed the blue-black stubble on his chin. Armbruster was gone, and the deputy CO was stuck in a hunting cabin somewhere in Maine–fine time to take leave! Lamb was it: the man in the hot seat, the man with the most brass on his rank tabs. A mere major.

He rubbed his stubble again. Like everyone else in the Worry Hole, he hadn’t showered, hadn’t shaved, hadn’t slept in 72 hours. His flight suit, the onesie that passed as working uniform for Space Force satellite jockeys, was so caked with sweat it could stand by itself. Show up on camera like that and the politicians would panic. They wanted the military officers on the ground cool, calm, and collected while the politicians who Really Mattered flew away to putative safety in the “Looking Glass”–the sumptuous new Airborne Command Post jet that could stay aloft for a month or more waiting for the rubble to settle.

The Looking Glass jet was currently flying lazy eights at 30,000 feet over the Atlantic Seaboard. Nobody had broken it to the big wigs yet that they were sitting ducks in a thin-skinned jet and might as well stay in DC.

“Right,” Lamb said, keying his presets. The AI laid a clean-shaven filter over Lamb’s camera image, dressing him in dress uniform complete with perfectly knotted neck tie. Lockouts prevented Lamb from doing anything about his rank, so the White House would have to stoop to listening to a mere major announce the end of the world.

“The President has entered the chat,” the AI announced tartly.

Showtime.

“Good evening, Mr. President,” Lamb said into his mic, letting the AI steady his voice. His fingers danced over his virtual keyboard, keying the visual sequence he’d assembled.

“To sum up,” Lamb said, “this morning the People’s Republic of China engaged the alien incursion on their home soil, and when that failed, the Jirod mothership in orbit.” Lamb paused briefly, ensuring small audience followed him. The Dullard-In-Chief needed things kept simple, but then Lamb wasn’t talking to him, but to a certain someone in the back of the room. Lamb continued: “The aliens suffered no damage whatsoever despite the use of nuclear weapons. The Jirod retaliated. The Peoples Republic of China no longer exists as a political entity.

“Now for details.”

A map of Hainan appeared on everyone’s screens. Hainan was the large blob-like island off China’s extreme southern coast. The AI starred the harbor city of Hoihow on Hainan’s northern tip. “Target J, the giant alien Construct, was operating in the harbor city of Hoihow.” The AI starred Hoihow on the map, then shrunk the map and slid it off to one side.

A recorded satellite feed showed the so-called “Construct” tearing great swaths of destruction through the city. The damage looked too methodical to be animal rage. Rather, the back-and-forth pattern looked like someone mowing his lawn.

In another corner the AI presented the now famous cell phone camera footage of the creature’s rampage taken at ground level by a Hainan resident.

Thirty stories tall, the Construct looked like a gargantuan triceratops with stumpy T-Rex arms. A fat, beefy tail dragged on the ground behind it like a kangaroo’s. The construct’s skin had the texture of cracked and crumbling concrete, evidence scientists said, and that the creature was a silicon-based life form. How such a massive creature defied the square-cube law, said scientists declined to comment.

“Yes, yes; we’ve seen all that,” the sack of donuts who wore the uniform of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs snapped. “Get to the meat of it.”

Lamb allowed himself a little smile as he keyed in footage they most definitely had not seen.

“At 2224 hours Zulu, 0624 hours China local,” Lamb said, “elements of China’s South Sea Fleet and the Kwangchow 42nd Army Group”–the AI marked their nearby bases on the map–“landed amphibious troops at Hoihow, where upon they immediately engaged Target J.”

All extraneous side visuals vanished as the AI brought up video footage of the actual attack.

A wave of Chinese landing craft hit the beach: their prow ramps droped in the surf for heavy tanks and troop carriers to churn their way ashore. A coordinated “V” of attack helicopters roared overhead. Gun muzzles aboard naval vessels offshore rose in their turrets in preparation for fire.

The images were not overhead satellite photos, but ground level recordings from multiple viewpoints. Hollywood couldn’t have done a better job.

The Chairman swore. “Gimme actual satellite feed, not this fake AI horse-malarkey!” he snarled. “And don’t tell me some rickshaw driver took these with a phone.”

Lamb paused the visuals. “I assure you, General, these images are quite real. They’re not AI. I’ll speak about where they come from afterwards.” The visuals resumed playing.

The Hoihow battlefield erupted in a paroxysm of gunfire. Every tank, every plane, every ship opened fire on the Construct. Armed drones unleashed sheaves of rockets from point-blank range. Cruise missiles roared in from offshore ships.

The Construct merely stood there letting the attacks splash harmlessly against him.

Or, rather, against the translucent barrier that projected out a few feet from its body.

Hit after hit struck the giant creature, but it all ricocheted impotently against its barrier. Kinetics, explosives–nothing got through.

The sustained Chinese barrage lasted less than two minutes, just long enough for the giant Construct to waddle its way around to face the stinging gnats annoying it.

The horns on the creature’s head began to glow–first cherry red, then blinding white. Beams of strange energies lanced out from the horn tips, stabbing deep through armored warships, sinking every ship at sea.

The Construct then swung its head around like a horse shooing flies, sweeping all aircraft from the sky with the ravening beams. It lowered its horns and raked the ground. Roiling columns of burning gasoline and smoke marked where the Chinese forces had made their last stand.

Other than a few infantry soldiers who’d manage to scurry to cover, the PLA forces were completely, utterly annihilated in mere seconds.

The Construct then turned back around as if nothing had happened and returned to stomping buildings.

The Looking Glass audience collapsed into utter chaos. Lamb let them babble. As a mere major, he hadn’t the rank or the clout to quiet them down.

One man did, however, and he sat in the back, chain smoking menthol cigarettes, and sniffing prissily as he watched the rest of the monkey house fling their poo: former President Prowse, the power behind the Resolute Desk and ruler of all he surveyed, which, with satellites, was pretty much everything.

Prowse stubbed out his cigarette. “The source of these videos, Major?” he asked, his voice deceptively bland.

“The Jirod themselves.”

The Looking Glass crowd erupted again.

Somebody, maybe the Joint Doughnut, whistled for silenced. Lamb continued. “The images were sent via orbital tight beam to Space Command’s ‘Golf Ball’ trackers at Buckley, Peterson, and Schriever. They knew down to the foot where to send them. They sent them as part of a warning.”

The visuals resumed. They switched to views of China’s nuclear missile silos. Only one in three managed to successfully launch, but a third of nuclear Armageddon was still nuclear Armageddon. Two missiles arced in a ballistic trajectory towards Hainan and the Construct. The rest of the vast host of missiles arrowed upwards toward the Jirod vessel in orbit.

The recording cut to Hainan Island. The two ICBMs burst into a blossom of MIRV warheads. Two became fourteen, and of those fourteen warheads, three tumbled into the sea, hundreds of miles away from Target J.

Four fell to the earth as dirty bomb duds.

Five near-misses hit within a five-mile radius of Hoihow harbor.

Three warheads managed to strike Target J dead-on.

A force barrier stopped these as well, but a new kind of barrier. Instead of the sheath protecting the Construct, a translucent force bubble enclosed the warhead just before they struck. Nuclear fusion occurred within these bubbles in a hellish paroxysm of light and heat that put the surface of the sun to shame. Titanic forces strained against the fragile soap-bubbles to no avail. X-rays, Gamma Rays, alpha and beta particles, concussion, heat, and light all raged in vain.

Eventually the fire of hell abated, spent and impotent. The bubble-like globes faded away, leaving nothing but slightly-heated air, not even enough fallout to tickle a Geiger counter.

The near misses, however, reduced Hoihow itself into a radioactive abattoir. The poor infantry who managed to escape destruction from the Construct’s fury vaporized in the nuclear fire.

Completely unscratched, the Construct roared in petulant anger. The nukes had flattened its play toy. It plodded off to find an undamaged part of the island to stomp.

Meanwhile in space, a similar ratio of MIRV warheads slammed into the Jirod spaceship. Again, they were enclosed and made useless. The Jirod vessel continued on serenely in its orbit.

The serenity lasted all of five seconds, then ten.

And then the Jirod retaliated.

Pop-up gun emplacements on the hull raised into position and fired stabbing beams of that same strange energy. Only the shipboard beams were at least a magnitude stronger, and much more powerful.

The beams bore into the underground silos that had fired upon them, reducing them to a complete ruin. Then the beams played across the map of China, destroying their remainder of ICBM silos, including the ones in reserve which had neither fired nor revealed themselves.

Not content with that, the Jirod beams obliterated every Chinese military base–air, sea, and land. But the worst was yet to come.

The bulbous nose of the potato-shaped Jirod vessel irised open, revealing the massive bore of a gargantuan beam cannon. Everything up till now had been a friendly tickle.

The massive cannon fired again and again, obliterating Chinese megalopolises with a single strike. Beijing, Shanghai, Chunking, New Mao City–all gone in a blink of an eye.

As a final flourish, the small-bore beams played across the concrete surface of the fabled Three Gorges Dam, unleashing a watery Armageddon down the Yangtze River channel all the way to the sea. The terminus roiled with mud and debris.

China still existed as a land mass, but as a world power, as a civilization, it no longer existed.

The view cut to the bridge of the Jirod vessel. As in their initial broadcast to the world when they’d first appeared in orbit, the Jirod again chose to remain in the shadows. Dark indistinct figures moved around on a dark and shadowed bridge like bats in a cave, like demons in the pitch-black depths of hell.

The lead Jirod spoke. Computer automated translation rendered its voice cold and harsh, lacking all human emotion or even human cadence.

“The challenger did not follow the rules,” it intoned. “The challenger attacked our august persons. The challenger is no more.”

The Jirod leaned forward. “The second challenger will follow the rules. We will not be so merciful next time.”

The figure then sat back. Matter-of-factly, it continued. “The second challenger will now make ready to face us in individual combat.” It stressed the world individual. “You have until three planetary rotations, clutch of eggs known as A-mer-i-cckka.” It broke the connection and the footage ended.

Again the Looking Glass dissolved into a shouting match. Even a politician could grasp the situation, but then even earthworms could feel pain.

The chief worm of them all, Prowse, waited a few moments, then uncrossed his legs, brushed cigarette ash from his trousers, and cleared his throat. The Looking Glass fell silent like well-trained poodles.

“What was General Armbruster’s suggested course of action?” the ex-president asked. Armbruster had been one of Prowse’s creatures, elevated to his first star when Mr. Wonderful had taken office and purged the Pentagon, replacing them with his toadies. Unlike the rest of the lickspittles, however, Old Iron Pants was actually competent in his job. He’d therefore managed to remain when the current Dullard-In-Chief initiated his own purge.

Major Lamb made of show of picking up a sheet of paper as if to read from it. “General Armbruster was of the conclusion that while our conventional and nuclear forces are qualitatively superior to China’s, they weren’t superior enough to fare any better against the Jirod. Therefore, our only viable option was to engage in this ‘challenge’ and ‘somehow’ win.”

The paper was, of course, blank. These were Lamb’s opinions. Armbruster had argued for immediate attack. He’d been arguing with Lamb, shouting just that point, purple-faced and flecked with spittle, when he’d keeled over like a dead mackerel.

Maybe God really did protect drunkards and the United States.

Lamb set the paper aside. “He said that meant calling in Professor Sagara.”

Bedlam again.

“That fraud!”

“That quack!”

“That scam artist!”

Prowse compressed his lips in glowering anger. No man alive despised Professor Sagara as much as Prowse did. No one stood to lose as much if Sagara succeeded. No one stood to gain as much should Sagara fail.

Prowse stabbed, stabbed, stabbed out his cigarette.

“Was Professor Sagara sent a ‘Walnut’?” he asked.

On their arrival, the Jirod had teleported handfuls of a walnut-shaped artifact straight onto world leaders’ desks. Probably some sort of cosmic puzzle humanity were supposed to solve in conjunction with the “challenge.” They’d been doled out to various research labs, but so far no one had figured them out.

Lamb nodded. “Yes, sir, he was on the distribution list.”

Prowse sniffed. “And does the esteemed Professor Sagara have an estimate as to when he’ll solve it?” The dipping scorn in Prowse’s voice implied never.

Lamb kept his smile in check. “No word on the Walnut, but the professor did send word that he has a fully-built Champion prototype built and ready to deploy.”

Prowse steepled his fingers. “And just what kind of champion is it?”

Lamb breathed deep. “A giant robot,” Lamb said. “Just like the kind in cartoons.”

Bedlam again.

Dugway Proving Grounds

Dugway, Utah

Dugway had been a going concern back in the First Cold War. It sat in the middle of Utah’s western desert on a reservation larger than some New England states. It once had boasted its own small city complete with homes, shops, theaters, and schools.

Now Dugway City was a ghost town populated only by tumbleweed. Its red-and-white checkered water tower stood empty and rusting, skewed at a bent, crazy angle.

A VTOL swing-wing executive jet slid greasily over the abandoned base, past the few warehouses the Army still actively maintained. It hovered over the abandoned town, then lowered itself, landing next to what had been Dugway High School.

The jet’s tail flash bore Peterson Space Force Base’s identification ribbon and the jet’s nose bore the three-star flag of the late Lieutenant General Armbruster.

Armbruster, of course, was under a sheet in a makeshift morgue–the officer’s club walk-in cooler. The jet’s sole passenger was Major Andrew Lamb.

At the end of the SITREP briefing, with the Dullard-in-Chief fuming in sullen silence, Prowse had royally decreed Lamb go out to Dugway:

“In the absence of General Armbruster,” Prowse had said, “you seem to be most up to speed on Sagara’s claims. I’m sure the President will agree that you should be appointed our liaison with Professor Sagara. Fly out immediately and appraise us of the situation.”

Lamb assured him he would follow those instructions to the letter. He’d left for Dugway in the commandeered Air Mobility Command executive sky taxi provided for him.

However, not before he’d managed a shower, shave, and change of clothes. He’d fallen asleep on the plane even before wheels-up and slept the entire flight. Lamb almost felt human again.

Dugway High was a brick monstrosity. Rows of narrow windows only added to its prison-like lines.

Well, it was a prison of sorts, a place to lock away the iconoclastic troublemaker known as Professor Victor Sagara.

The DoD had exiled him here, after the professor publicly rowed with the thin-skinned and brand new President Prowse. The SecDef killed off Sagara’s Area 51 research project and dumped him here to design infantry weapons for the Army on a budget that wouldn’t feed a budgie.

Sagara had accepted the offer, ignored the terms of his new contract, and resumed doing exactly what he wanted.

And now Sagara might just be humanity’s only hope.

Sagara, a cranky-faced man in denims and a welder’s apron, looked more a car mechanic than a stereotypical lab-coated mad scientist. Only the wild, uncombed fringe of white hair suggested the role. Like the interior of the school itself, Sagara stank of acetylene and hot-splashed metals.

He stood waiting for Lamb inside the school’s front door, angry, peeved, and with a full head of steam on.

Lamb stuck out his hand in greeting, which the peevish professor pointedly ignored.

Instead, he looked at Lamb up and down. “Six feet even, I’d say.” He clucked his tongue. “How much you weigh?” He rattled off his words like an overclocked teletype.

Lamb reflexively sucked in his gut. “One-eighty–why?” Years of desk work had thickened his middle, but he was still fit for his age–fitter than most Space Force chairborne rangers, but that wasn’t saying much.

Sagara snorted. “That’ll have to do.”

“Do for what.”

“Do for the cockpit,” Sagara snapped, upset at having to state what to him was the obvious. “Don’t think I’m risking any of my boys in it, do you?”

“In what?”

“The robot, of course. The Sagara Super 7.”

This begged the question “What happened to Sagara Supers 1 through 6?”

Sagara was six paces down the long main corridor before he muttered, “This way.”

Lamb had to quick march to catch up to the bustling little man.

The school’s interior looked like it had been gutted and rebuilt. The crazy patchwork of different colored bricks and painted cinder blocks gave no clue, however, to its current layout, only that the long central corridor had exactly zero side doors leading off into classrooms. The long corridor looked about a hundred yards, three hundred feet. The height of the Construct.

Lamb’s attempts to draw Sagara out during the brisk walk down the hall met with huffy silence.

Finally, they came to the end of the corridor and a door. Sagara stopped short and whirled around.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” he said, glaring at Lamb as if he were a cockroach or something lower. Sagara whipped out a folded sheet of paper and shoved it under Lamb’s nose.

“I’m only allowing you in here under duress. If it was up to me, your boss would die in a grease fire and you along with him, but since right now that would mean letting the entire planet get shish kabab-ed along with you.”

Lamb calmly took the printout. It was a directive from Prowse to Sagara on “Office of the Former-President” stationery, replete with homemade seal of office. It directed Sagara “in light of the recent crisis” to turn full control of Sagara’s entire facility over to a military officer to be named later and await Prowse’s further instructions.

“Tell me, who does that jackal Prowse think he is?” Sagara demanded.

“He thinks he’s President Prowse, but that’s not the question. The question here is who does the law think he is?” A shark’s smile crept over Lamb’s face. “Nobody, that’s who.”

Lamb tore the printout into little pieces and let them fall to the green-tiled floor. “There’s no such thing as any Office of Former President and the only person ex-President Prowse can legally order around is his cabana boy.”

Sagara stared in surprise. “You don’t work for him?”

“I work for the Constitution of the United States, and nobody in my Constitutional chain of command has ordered me to do diddly squat.” His smile widened. “I guess technically that means I’m AWOL from Schriever, but if I can stop Prowse from stopping you. They can hang me for it later.”

He dusted the last of the ripped paper from his hands. “And now I suggest you shut down all outside communications before Prowse realizes his mistake and does things legally.”

Sagara wiped a grimy hand on his shirt and touched a black plastic dingus in his ear. “Moshe,” he said, “seal us up.”

The hallway lights faltered, dimmed, and went out as the mains were cut. Backup generators cut in and restored light and power.

“So much for Prowse,” Sagara smirked.

Lamb stared out a narrow window. A black opaque Jirod-style barrier surrounded the school.

“Nothing’s getting in through that,” Sagara crowed.

“You’ve cracked the Walnut then.”

Oh, did Sagara nod his head. “We’ve cracked the Walnut. Cracked it and then some.”

Sagara’s lab looked more like a high school shop classroom than anything in the movies. Lathes and hydraulic presses and soldering stations, but no Jacob’s ladders. The only science-y thing about it was a lonely Textronic O-scope in the corner and that wasn’t even turned on.

Sagara had hared off on a tangent the moment he’d stepped through the door.

“He was a funny little guy,” Sagara said, “the crash survivor. You’d’ve liked him. I did–the entire three hours I was allowed to see him.”

A pile of silvery metallic shards lay atop a battered wooden desk.

“That’s his ship’s log,” Sagara said, picking through the pile. “Brought it with me from Area 51. Those dunderheads were never going to decipher it anyway.”

After the Jirod and China, mentions of actual Area 51 aliens and saucers seemed a little tame. And irrelevant.

The professor picked up a particular sliver and nestled it in his palm. “Our castaway didn’t think much of the Jirod. ‘Boorish,’ he wrote. ‘Football jock’ may be a better translation.”

“They do seem an unlikable bunch, the Jirods,” Lamb said.

“Jirod singular. There’s only one of him.”

Lamb cocked an eyebrow. “But we saw several in that message video!”

Sagara snorted. “You saw puppets. The real Jirod’s already down on Earth. He’s the Construct.”

The old man chuckled. “Didn’t see that one coming, did you, son? Neither did Prowse.” He chucked the sliver back on the desk.

“Know what Prowse’s grandiose plan to save the world is? Blow off the challenge, invite the ‘Jirods’ down for talks. Then sit back and let Earth germs wipe out the unsuspecting aliens.”

The wizened genius snorted. “He read it in a book, you see.”

“Isn’t the Jirod a silicon life form?”

Sagara started digging around in a desk drawer. “Precisely. Carbon-based germs won’t do squat.”

The old man’s hand emerged with what looked like a snow globe. “Here’s your Walnut.” He tossed it to Lamb for him to look at.

The alien item looked exactly what the name implied: a terrestrial walnut shell, only glossy black like obsidian with a Grackle-like purple-green sheen to it.

The Walnut now floated in a Jirod small barrier globe. “I ‘globed’ it. Don’t say I care for mystery devices that phone home to the Mothership.”

“Phone…? You mean it keeps in communication with the Jirod?”

“Ship and Construct. Check the timestamps. Every time the Jirod formed a barrier or fired a beam, this Walnut–and every other one in the world, I know, I checked–lit up like a light bulb. Bubble goes down, beam shuts off, Walnut goes dark. Sounds a little Trojan horsey to me.”

Networked. Lamb certainly didn’t like it either.

The professor took the Walnut back. With his other hand, he pulled a second, non-encased Walnut out of his pocket. “So, I built one without the link.”

Lamb blinked. “You built your own Walnut?”

“The little guy’s saucer had one, burnt out of course, but it gave me ninety-percent of what I needed to reverse engineer one. Needed a live one to look at, though, to dope out the rest. It’s like an old rotary telephone. Ever see modern kids try to use one? They don’t know you gotta pick up the receiver for a dial tone before you can dial. But if the phone’s not hooked up, you can’t get a dial tone, and therefore you’re probably never going to figure out you need one. A live Walnut showed me I needed the equivalent of a dial tone.”

“But what is a Walnut for?” Lamb asked.

“Let’s just say you can power a giant robot with one.”

The school had indeed been gutted so as to turn the length of the interior into a long, empty hangar bay, long enough to hold a 297-foot giant robot laying on its back.

The robot’s design may have looked a sci-fi caricature of samurai armor, but Sagara had painted the thing a garish red, white, and blue with stars and stripes and screaming eagles. Give it over-sized tires, and it’d look right at home at a Monster Truck rally.

Lamb whistled. “That’s certainly one hunk of steel.”

“Carbon composites. Steel’s too heavy.”

The major rapped his knuckles on the robot’s skin. Composites, all right. Flimsy as an automobile’s body panels.

“Structure’s just there to give it form,” the professor said. “Barrier provides the real armor.”

If a barrier could withstand nukes, it’d certainly withstand tussling with a giant reptile. “Why’s it turned turtle on its back?”

“Can’t stand its own when unpowered. Joints won’t take the weight.” A tech in a white smock scurried up. Sagara handed him both the homemade Walnut and the Jirod original. The tech scurried away, disappearing into the robot’s head.

“The Walnut will provide barrier-force tendons to keep it together, and power its movements.”

It all sounded crazy, but then so did a giant monster destroying China. “Will it be ready in time?”

“It’s ready now,” Sagara said, “Just waiting on the pilot.”

He looked at Lamb. “You’re the one in the flight suit.”

They’d hinged back the robot’s faceplate, revealing a completely hollow, empty chamber inside.

“Look, ma! No cockpit,” Lamb muttered, suddenly feeling sick. He’d expected something “science fiction-y,” like a starship bridge or something like that. There was nothing at all inside the head except the two Walnuts, the Jirod’s and Sagara’s, floating in mid-air.

Sagara leaned over the rim and peered down. “That’s your engine,” he said, pointing at the homemade Walnut. “I could have put it in the chest cavity, but thought maybe I better put it where you could get at it if you needed to. The other I put in so’s you’ll have warning when the Jirod’s about to fire off a beam or set up a barrier.”

Lamb heaved himself over the lip and dropped to the floor of the “cockpit,” in this case being the inside back of the skull. It’d be a horizontal wall when–if–the robot stood upright. Lamb didn’t see any handholds to grab onto. Handholds weren’t the only thing missing. “Where are my controls?”

Sagara tossed down a mil-spec virtual reality helmet, the kind used to pilot unmanned drones.

Lamb didn’t like VR helmets. One good smack to the head and they were nothing but a plastic party hat. “What if it breaks?”

“Can’t break,” Sagara assured him. “Walnut won’t let it.”

The major shrugged and put the helmet on. The face visor automatically closed and locked, immediately powering up the HUD display. Lamb saw all the controls and monitor displays he’d ever need and then some. “Lot of controls here. Do I get time to practice?”

Sagara’s voice came clear as a bell over a comm channel. “Don’t pay any attention to all that garbage. Won’t need it. You just need to wear the suit like your body. Your body’ll know what to do. Let me get down from here and I’ll power it on for you.” The old man’s face vanished as he slid down the robot head to the floor.

A couple minutes the robot’s face plate lowered and locked shut. Suddenly a barrier globe formed around Lamb. “Crash bag,” Sagara’s voice said. “Humans are a might squishy.”

The globe levitated a struggling Lamb, floating him to the middle of the empty space. “Relax, stand straight.” Lamb did.

The globe rotated Lamb, standing, to the same alignment as the robot’s axis, lying on his back, his feet pointed in the same direction as the robot’s feet. It still felt like he was standing straight up, though, like gravity was ninety-degrees off.

“Comfy?” Sagara asked.

“I’d be a lot more comfy if I knew what I knew the parameters for this ‘challenge.’ The Jirod was a little vague on details.” Purposely so, perhaps. Lamb continued, “That little castaway friend of yours ever say what happens if somebody loses one of these challenges? Or wins, for that matter?”

“Just that the Jirod takes his little contests dead seriously.”

Dead as Shanghai.

“All systems green” announced an AI voice.

The hangar bay roof clamshelled open. The sky looked totally black until Lamb realized it wasn’t the sky at all but the interior of the Walnut barrier around the school.

Lamb looked over the deluge of virtual controls. “Uh, so how do I make this thing stand up?”

“Oops, hold on. Slight error on my part,” Sagara mumbled. “Forgot to switch the feedback on,” So it seemed even the great brain could make a mistake.

“There,” said Sagara, and Lamb felt he was no longer floating upright, but lying flat on his back on the hangar’s concrete pad. He could feel the coolness of the concrete against his robotic “skin.”

“That’s the neural link,” Sagara said. “Don’t worry, there’s governors on it so you won’t feel pain from combat damage, just a low-level sensory suggestion of a hit.”

Nice to know, but not Lamb’s immediate concern. “How do I stand?”

“Just move as you would move your own body. It’s just like wearing your own body.”

Only Lamb’s body wasn’t 297-feet tall.

Lamb shrugged and the robot shrugged, too. “Here goes.”

He sat up; the robot sat up. He got to his feet; the robot got to his feet. Lamb found himself a dizzying three hundred feet above the ground.

“Whoa,” he said with a fleeting touch of vertigo.

“Oops,” Sagara said again. “Adjusting your sense of scale.” Suddenly the size of the robot felt just right, just the way his normal body did.

“I hope there’s not going to more of these ‘oops’ moments,” Lamb told him.

Lamb turned his head/the robot’s head side to side. He realized with a start that he could, if he willed so, “see” his surroundings in just that same strange multi-camera third-person view as the recording of the battle images. More “Walnut magic” he supposed. He “saw” himself/the robot in the third person, standing under the school barrier. The top of his samurai helmet almost grazed the top of the dome.

“What say we get you some practice time out on the proving range?” Sagara asked.

“Fine by me, but you’ll have to drop that dome so I can exit.”

The barrier dropped to reveal about a zillion Army troops and MPs surrounding the school.

“That jackwall Prowse’s called the cops on us!” Sagara groused. “Get clear! I’ll throw up a barrier around the school again. Don’t worry–I’ll key it to allow our commo frequencies through.”

Gingerly, Lamb lifted one foot out of the hangar, swinging it over and down on the ground, followed by the other. Careful to avoid squishing the men below, he took two hesitant steps to get clear of the school. As soon as he was clear, up went a second barrier.

Lamb–or rather the robot, this was getting confusing telling the robot apart from his own flesh-and-blood body–began backing away from the tiny figures so as not to hurt them.

The feeling wasn’t mutual.

The MPs let fly with everything they had. Pistols, shotgun, automatic rifles, even an RPG. The impacts sparked against the external barrier coating the robot’s frame. No damage. Lamb didn’t even feel the attack.

He turned and started walking out into the desert. On the edge of the dilapidated city, he accidentally grazed the rusting water tower, causing it to topple.

“Oops.”

“‘I hope there’s not going to more of these ‘oops’ moments,’” Sagara snickered over the comm. After a few more steps, he said, “You’re far enough away from the maddening crowd. I’ve unlocked your boot thrusters. Fly out to the range.”

“Wait. This thing can fly?”

“Just like in the cartoons. Imagine thrust coming out the soles of your feet and take off. The neural link knows what you want to do.”

A doubtful Lamb did just that. He found himself flying through the air with the greatest of ease, completely clueless as to how he knew exactly how to do so.

Up, up, and about.

The miles flashed by. Gray-green sage brush dotted the flat desert landscape, punctuated at points by craters and burn marks, the detritus of decades of weapon test, artillery, rockets, bio, chem–everything short of a nuke. The proving ground stretched on further than he could see. Sensors showed no puny humans about. Only a clutch of obsolete tanks battered to scrap by BGM-71 TOW anti-tank missiles, relics of some test decades ago.

“This should be far enough,” Sagara said. “Land and we’ll have some fun.”

“It’s really very simple,” Sagara explained. “You’ve three basic Walnut functions. I’ll handle the rest from here. The first function you know; boot thrusters. Second one is defense. That’s your left arm. You can form barrier shields with it or thicken the default one holding the robot together.”

Lamb waggled his left arm and a translucent buckler of energy formed on his left forearm. He waggled it off. He found he could form bubbles of various shapes and sizes.

“Third,” continued Sagar, “Offense. Your right arm–you are right-handed, correct? I didn’t even check. Extend your right arm and shoot beams out of your fingers.”

Lamb pointed at one of the old battered tanks and blasted it with the same type of beam as the Jirod used. Blossoms of metal scrap thudded to earth.

“Secondary mêlée attack: cup your fingers and thumbs like you’re holding onto a pole and an energy stick will appear in it–a club basically.”

The major formed the stick, and, swinging it like a mallet, swatted a tank husk a full quarter mile. “That ought to make a dent in that Construct’s noggin.”

“We can hope,” Sagara added. “Globes or sticks or rays–it’s all the same energy force. Your club against the Construct’s barrier is a case of the irresistible force meeting the immovable object. It’s going to end up a slugging match as to who can attrit the other’s barrier energy faster.”

Like a boxing match–two mugs slugging each other until one of them drops.

Lamb idly picked up a rusted-out half-track in his fingers, pulled it apart, and then tossed the remains. “I’d still like to know just why the Jirod goes around challenging planets.”

“Maybe he just likes stomping the natives.”

And we’re the natives.

A red warning light flashed on every virtual screen in Lamb’s HUD display.

A panicked tech’s voice came over the comm channel. “The Construct’s just teleported away from Hainan,” the tech shouted. “It’s just reappeared in New York Harbor!”

Cold, icy ice grabbed at Lamb’s guts.

Not America, not home.

“That’s all the practice you’re going to get,” Sagara said. “His little min-window image started slapping virtual controls. “I’m teleporting you–now.”

A thrumming sound battered Lamb’s senses, and existence itself blinked away. The world flashed back into being again and the giant robot splashed into the frigid waters of New York Harbor.

By luck or intent, Lamb’s robot had plopped down just a few feet from the Construct. The Jirod was wading out towards the Statue of Liberty. At three hundred feet from ground to torch, the base included, Lady Liberty was just the right height for a Challenger.

Stupid alien.

Lamb waved his arms and shouted. “Hey, you! I’m over here.”

The Construct either didn’t hear him or just plain ignored him. The massive Jirod kept wading forward.

“Like a video game. Not enough aggro,” Lamb muttered to himself.

Lamb grabbed the Construct’s tail, yanking it hard. “Hands off the lady!”

He put the tail over his shoulder and heaved hard.

That got the Construct’s attention. It shuffled around to face him.

“That’s right, ugly. Earth’s Champion is right here.”

The Construct roared a challenge.

Sagara did a little roaring, too, over the comm. “You idiot! You’ve got him pointing towards the city!”

Lamb’s blood went cold. If it let loose with those horn beams…

He had to get the alien angled away, which wasn’t going to be easy, with New York surrounding them on three sides like an upside-down U.

Checking his map display, he sidled around, the Jirod following suit.

There, that’s a good angle.

Lamb didn’t want to fire off his own beams–that might give the Jirod ideas. Instead, he closed the distance, activating both shield and stick, and lambasted the Jirod over the head.

The stick sparked off the alien’s sheath barrier. HUD readouts showed no perceptible drop in the Construct’s barrier strength. This was going to be a slog.

The Construct backed up, lowered its head, and charged. Its horns sparked off Lamb’s arm shield. The creature grabbed at the shield with its tiny T-Rex arms, its sharp claws skittering across the translucent surface. Lamb hit it over the head several times, the flurry of blows causing the creature to back off.

HUD displays warned that while Lamb’s blows weren’t doing much, the Constructs were doing plenty to him.

Gotta be those sharp points, he thought. They were gouging into his barrier while his blunt instrument was only bouncing off. If only Lamb could form a sword instead of a club. Maybe if he’d had more time to practice.

He continued to wail away with the energy stick, still causing no damage, but his movements were getting smoother, and faster. He was getting the hang of this. Maybe his brain was settling into the neural link.

He tried forming a sword again. No dice, but he found if he dropped his left arm shield, he could extend the stick into a long quarterstaff. The added range would at least keep him out of the Construct’s reach.

He whirled it around, then stabbed the Jirod in the gut with the butt end of the staff. It wasn’t pointed, but it did focus the blunt impact on a much smaller surface area. Lamb’s HUD display told him he’d finally done a bit of damage to the Jirod’s shield.

Lamb had been fighting the way Sagara thought he should. It was time to start fighting his own way: stab, stab, smash! Stab, stab, smash!

The blows rained down, causing small but steady damage while the frustrated Jirod couldn’t touch him. It attempted poking at him with its horns, but Lamb parried with the long staff.

He had the Construct on its back foot now.

Hubris, meet Nemesis.

The Construct whipped its long, long tail around, bludgeoning Lamb off his feet, toppling him into the water.

With a roar, the wounded Jirod charged head down.

Lamb attempted to regain his footing, but the muddy ooze at the bottom of the harbor pinned him down like glue. He’d lost his staff in the process, too, and he couldn’t concentrate enough to reform it.

The Jirod splashed closer.

In desperation, Lamb lifted a boot and fired his thruster point-blank into the charging beast’s center mass. The Jirod went flying back.

They both staggered to their feet.

By this time news choppers were buzzing around the battle. Lamb’s HUD told him that Air National Guard fighter jets from nearby Stewart Air National Guard Base were en route as well.

The Jirod, thinking these were part of a military attack like at Hoihow, bellowed in anger. It swung its tail at Lamb, whacking him off balance again. The Jirod lifted its horns skyward.

“Oh, no–”

The original Walnut began to glow. The Jirod was about to fire his beams at the helicopters.

Still crouched in the water, Lamb reached out his left hand and globed the choppers into his shield in the nick of time.

The Jirod’s beams struck the spheres put couldn’t penetrate them.

Lamb dropped the barriers, shouting to the choppers to get out of there. They must have heard, for they angled up and away.

The damage had been done, however.

“You have broken the rules!” the Jirod screamed. The three-hundred-foot creature could actually talk.

Horns glowing, it spun around and fired its beams at Manhattan.

Lamb managed to erect a flat glacis that absorbed the beams. Barely.

The Jirod roared all the harder. It made a curious gesture skyward with its dwarven arms.

Sagara’s panicked voice came over the comm. “Son, he’s powering up the ship’s main cannon.” The linked Walnut in Lamb’s cockpit glowed white hot.

Horn beams were a garden hose compared to those weapons. Even at full strength, a Walnut barrier could never withstand it.

What about two Walnuts?

Lamb hoped his neural mastery was up to the job. He reached out with his mind and brushed aside the barrier globe Sagara had put on the linked Walnut. He mentally “dropped” the Walnut into place, interfacing it in parallel with Sagara’s homemade Walnut.

The Jirod felt the linked Walnut make connection–and it made him happy!

“At last!” the Jirod crowed, “the link reveals itself!”

The Jirod Walnut’s power faltered and went dead.

“The dirty cheater!” Lamb said. “That’s what the Link’s for. Anytime he starts to lose, he just turns off the Challenger’s Walnut.”

“Trying to counter him,” Sagara said from his end. “Hold on.”

The linked Walnut glowed back to life, just in time for the ship in orbit to fire its main cannon.

Lamb threw up a barrier, but not around himself: even if it held the damage, the splash back would have leveled New York. Instead, he formed it up in the troposphere, where the riving energies could only strike scattered molecules of air.

The barrier held, but the cockpit Walnuts began to char and emit smoke. He powered them down, hoping to let them cool.

The Jirod Construct roared in triumph. It had risked splatter damage from its own ship’s beam to get Lamb. And now, feeling the link drop and thinking the linked Walnut dead, it knew Lamb was powerless.

It charged.

Lamb had no choice. Cooled down or not, he powered up again.

With his right arm ramrod-straight, he fired a double-strength beam dead center into the Construct’s gut. It tore through the sheath and gouged a glorious, great hole through the beastie.

The wound was mortal.

The stricken Jirod blinked in surprise, but even as it collapsed, it gestured a final time to its ship above.

Fire again!

Instinct, desperation, call it what you will. Lamb lifted his left arm and formed one last globe. He formed it high in space–formed it inside the ship’s protective sheath.

Lamb shoved that globe right down the muzzle of the Jirod ship’s main cannon, plugging it.

Lamb’s barrier plug, of course, was nothing compared to the energy power of the cannon, but like a finger stuck down a barrel, the plug caused the cannon to burst upon firing.

Cataclysmic explosions tore through the ship. The vessel’s sheath prevented these titanic energies from dissipating into space, instead sending them rebounding over and over again into fresh areas of its vitals, causing even more explosions. The mushrooming detonations built and built until the Jirod ship was consumed by its own firepower.

The victory proved Pyrrhic. The Walnuts were dead, charred black from the feedback. Sparks and smoke plumed from secondary systems. The robot clattered to a stop.

Enough residual battery power remained for Lamb to lever open the robot’s faceplate. He dove into the water as the robot broke apart under its own weight and sank into the murky water.

Thirty minutes later, a Harbor Patrol boat fished him out.

Two days later, an army of dredgers at Prowse’s command fished out what was left of the Sagara Super 7. Among the debris was the burnt-out husk of a Walnut.

The Oval Office was a lot smaller in person than it seemed on television. The whole White House was a bit of a letdown. Lamb couldn’t imagine clawing his way to the top just to sit in this dump.

For the sake of protocol, the Dullard-in-Chief sat behind the Resolute Desk. Prowse had to content himself with a chair set off to the side, but it was Prowse nevertheless who was in power here.

Prowse and the Dullard and Lamb and crotchety old Sagara were the only people in the room. No cabinet secretaries, and not even any Secret Service that Lamb could see.

“–No, sir,” Lamb answered. “When the Jirod died, all the Walnuts died, too.” He nodded at the recovered Walnut sitting on the desk. “They were linked.”

Prowse glowered. “And Sagara’s robot is no good without one.” He turned to Sagara. “Any possibility of building more?”

Sagara brayed with laughter. “Walnuts? With Earth technology? Do you have any idea of what you’re asking?” He brayed again. “Everything I learned from the Walnut leads me to conclude you need a Walnut to make a Walnut. Give me an intact Walnut, and I might be able to.” He gestured at the desk. “Until then, enjoy your burnt offering.”

Prowse pressed his lips until they turned purple. “Useless! You two are useless to me.” He jumped to his feet and flipped the intercom. “Cancel the medal ceremonies. And the promotion.”

He turned to Lamb. “You’re lucky you’re not being brought up on AWOL charges, major.”

As if on cue, two burly Secret Service agents entered and unceremoniously escorted and tossed Lamb and Sagara out.

Sagara waited until they were out on the street, the noisy street.

“Son, you are the lousiest liar I have ever met.”

Lamb smiled. “I notice you didn’t tell him about your homegrown Walnut, either.”

Sagara snorted. “Me? Build Walnuts for Prowse? Pull the other one.”

They flagged down a driverless taxi.

“So, what now?” Sagara asked after they’d climbed in.

“We build Walnuts for ourselves,” Lamb said. “It’s too dangerous to let Prowse know we can. We’d have to turn into a Prowse to stop him. Our only course, then, is to leave.” He pointed straight up. “Earth, I mean.”

“You mean build a starship?”

“You built a giant robot,” Lamb said.

Lamb looked out the window at Prowse’s world. “The only difference between Prowse and the Jirod is that the Jirod was just a leetle bit taller. There’s plenty of people sick at Prowse for stomping them flat. We’ll take them along and go build our own world.”

3

IN CAT WE TRUST

BY JESSE M. SLATER

Neural implants in the pilot’s fingers sang to their mates. Like striking snakes, the cabling leapt from its coils, fastening to his hands and feet, dozens of other points. The mighty mech Vengeance came to life around him and arose, shaking the ground with each step. Finn MacAvoy had spent many grueling months in the bushland of northern Canada, far from any observation or interference mastering his machine. His instruments and calculations told him when satellites might see, and the towering titan of destruction had lain hidden, deep in the undetectable fortress.

The American scientists had ridiculed his theories. Gravitic compressed micro-fusion would never work, they said. He built the reactor, proved them wrong. Far too dangerous, they said. Still they wouldn’t accept him or his theories. Today he would show them that however dangerous it might be, he, Finn, a wronged man, was far more dangerous.

He had developed whole new branches of science to make this day possible. With them and through them he controlled the most powerful engine of battle ever to walk the face of planet Earth. He had developed a fusion core of such incredible power density that the giant humaniform robot could move, not merely as a lumbering grotesque, but with the agility of a man, only many times taller and stronger. He had overcome the square cube law in materials science. He developed interfaces between man and machine that even the boldest futurists had barely dreamed of, to give him direct neural control over his new body, as huge, perfect and powerful as his own was small, weak and twisted.

No more hiding! No more skulking! That was at an end! Today, he marched south. Today, he would show those fools at Fermilab what their careless mockery had spawned. Today, he would rend and destroy the old order.

“Let us cross our Rubicon. Let our die be cast,” he muttered as the great armored war machine stalked across the cold concrete of the secret arctic base, and out into the snowy wastes beyond. What could possibly stand against him, and his mighty Vengeance?

“How, Chie–”

“If you say ‘Chief,’ I will have to write you a ticket,” Sheriff’s Deputy John White Eagle said.

“A ticket for what?” asked Agent Frank Sullivan mock-indignantly.

“For parking that fine new Fed-ride illegally, for harassing sworn law enforcement officers in the performance of their duties…”

“Fine, fine. I was only going to say ‘How…cheerful the day is.’”

“How…” Deputy White Eagle returned, stone-faced, one hand raised, “badly you lie. Just like a Fed.”

“Anyway, John,” Sullivan asked his friend, “any excitement?”

“Nailed a speeder two…maybe three hours ago. You?” The two lawmen sat parked in the classic nose to tail formation popularized by sardines in cans and policemen chewing the fat the world over. The deputy, in his rundown Ford sedan, watched the northbound traffic trickle by on MN 61, along the rockbound northern shore of Lake Superior from Duluth to the Canadian border. More than speeders, he watched for “persons of interest” who might be trying to leave his jurisdiction.

Agent Sullivan, in his green and white Suburban, shining and new, did much the same, but watching for “persons of interest” entering the jurisdiction of the United States. “No, it’s been pretty qui–” Before he could fully utter the fateful word, he broke off. A strange, rhythmic noise grew, emanating from the forest. The earth shook, and he cursed as scalding coffee splashed across his lap. “What’s that noise?”

“Do I look like a loud noise identifier? How should I know?”

Sullivan started to get out, but had no room to swing his door, especially not widely enough for a man of his bulk to exit. White Eagle pulled forward and both men stepped from their idling vehicles, straining to listen.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

“That way!” White Eagle pointed unnecessarily.

“That doesn’t make any sense! There’s nothing there but canoe country,” Sullivan snapped.

“That’s one loud canoe,” said White Eagle. “I think it’s coming this way.”

Crashing through the snow, forcing aside huge trees like mere tall grass, it came.

“What the hell is that?”

Dwarfing the trees, it was man-shaped enough that White Eagle’s perspective wobbled for a queasy moment. When the true distance to the edge of the woods reasserted itself, the massive red and white thing snapped into its true terrifying proportions. “It looks like a giant freaking robot, to me,” White Eagle said.

“Thank you for your native wisdom and observational skills. I would never have guessed.”

“You asked.”

“My point, John, is how often have you seen a giant freaking robot?”

“Once.”

“You’ve seen one of these things?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Just now.”

“John, I swear to God…Never mind. I should learn. What should we do about it?”

“It has a giant maple leaf painted on it. I’d say it’s an illegal immigrant. You should probably go look into that, Agent Sullivan.”

“Damn it, John, will you drop the Shitting Bull act for once?”

“Call for backup?”

“From who?” Sullivan asked, his voice becoming more agitated.

“Whom,” White Eagle deadpanned.

“Jooohn…”

“Okay, sorry. I don’t know. This is my first giant freaking robot, too. I don’t think SWAT could touch this. You’re the fed–don’t you have a battleship, or a tank or something you could call?”

“Tank? Probably need a dozen of them,” he said, as the true scale of the robotic invader became clear. Sullivan sprinted to his Suburban, and lifted the radio.

Finn MacAvoy jogged, or at least his mind, thought it did. His body remained safely strapped in place. None of that foolish muscular flapping about for him. Instead, his mechanical body, a perfect extension of his will, ran for him. He delighted in the sense of freedom and power–wait. What was that? He seemed to have miscalculated his course. He hadn’t been paying enough attention. All the hundreds of little lakes in the boundary waters looked the same. But now the big Lake, Superior herself lay before him, in all her pristine and deadly majesty. Few obstacles on earth would challenge Vengeance, but the greatest of the Great Lakes was one of them.

Forty miles across, even here in a narrow spot. A thousand feet deep, and cold enough to drain the energy even from his beautiful creation. No, even he must go around some things, he thought, ruefully. As he turned to follow the coastline southwest, the sensitive detection apparatus that formed his new senses alerted him to a danger signal. That tiny truck, the little people clustered around it…the matrix painted it yellow. It’s emitting radio energy.

That wasn’t good. Might ruin his surprise. With a thought, he selected an anti-radiation missile and sent it homing down the radio waves.

John White Eagle had played right tackle and been good at it. He saw the robot pivot toward the parked units. Even before a plume of fire lit the back of the missile pod, he charged. With no time to think how outrageously stupid it was, he crashed through the much bigger man, carrying them both out of the maelstrom that engulfed the Suburban. They were flung down by the shockwave, but luckily Frank broke his fall.

“Freaking owwww,” said Sullivan, as he struggled to sit. “I don’t know which hurts worse, my ribs or my head. What the hell?”

“The great loss accountant in the sky claimed your new ride.”

“That’s pretty good English for an ignorant redskin, but what are you talking about?”

“Look at your truck.”

“Where is it?” the fed asked, looking around in bewilderment.

“Exactly. That fireball over there. Shit…it’s burning the paint off my car, too! We’re going to bill the Border Patrol for that. That’s destruction of county property, you know.”

“Bill us? You’re insane. Bill that giant freaking robot, if you’re going to bill anyone.”

“Your truck was the proximate cause. That’s good enough for accounting.”

“For the eighty-first time today, John, could you cut the crap? That thing is getting closer.”

“Two ideas: we could run away from it, or we could run toward my car. If we drive, we might get away faster.”

“If it doesn’t just shoot the car.”

“If that, yes.”

“But we can’t run all the way back to Duluth. It’s too far for your insulin dependent Indian–”

“I’m not diabetic, and I can probably outrun you.”

“–ass. It’d probably just catch us and step on us. Especially if I was running slow enough to let you keep up.” Sullivan went on, as if White Eagle hadn’t spoken.

“Ignoring the obvious ignorance of that statement, that really only leaves the car. I hope you’re on good terms with the Great Spirit.”

“The Great what?” Sullivan asked, shielding his face against the searing heat of the burning wreck.

“Or your God–whatever. We’re going to need all the help we can get.” They slid into the unit. “If this is going to work, you’re gonna need to get real spiritual real fast.” He thought about his own people’s stories. He didn’t think Coyote or Deer Woman would be much help. Mishipeshu, though…If only they weren’t fairy stories, the Underwater Panther…Bah. Might as well be Frank, wishing for an Archangel with a flaming sword.

Instead of saying Hail Marys, Sullivan snaked a hand down for the radio microphone. White Eagle put the pedal down and the big Ford swung out of the graveled crossover, paint and tires smoking.

“Not till we get some distance,” he cautioned. “I think the signal got its attention the first time.”

“How far is missile range, or whatever?”

“Let me just check my Giant Freaking Robot Technical Manual…Oh, right. They didn’t tell me that.”

Sullivan raised an exasperated eyebrow and keyed the microphone. “…yes, I’m aware this is a Sheriff’s department frequency. No, I’m not a member of the department. I’m Agent Francis Sullivan, US Border Patrol. I need to talk to someone, and Deputy White Eagle is busy. Now, please put me through to my office?

“…now, can you put me through to the Pentagon? This is serious.”

“Why don’t you just use your cellular? Wouldn’t it be faster than all this rigmarole?” White Eagle asked, returning the eyebrow with interest.

“Because someone broke it when they tackled me.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” White Eagle asked, as he swerved. The missile careened into the pavement where they’d been. The shock wave hurled chunks of asphalt before it, slamming one through their rear window. Icy air swirled in.

“Because he did it while saving my life. Also, I’m not a big enough dick to–”

“… Agent Sullivan, this is Commander Sealy, duty officer in the National Military Command Center, over.”

“Finally. This is going to sound ridiculous, but I need…” Sullivan relayed the situation, punctuated with occasional yelps at his friend’s driving, or close calls with Canadian munitions.

“…yes Agent, that sounds ridiculous,” Sealy radioed back, “but yours aren’t the only such reports we’ve gotten. There are no tanks available, I regret to say. The US military’s prime assets are concentrated on the coasts, or serving abroad. But I’ll send a couple of planes to check it out, and get some reliable intel. Sealy out.”

“Reliable,” Sullivan grumbled. “What are we supposed to do in the meantime? We need help!”

“Thank you Agent Obvious,” White Eagle said, wrenching the speeding car through another bend. He was glad traffic was light. “But, you did hit your head back there–”

“John, you have to be the biggest, red-skinned smart ass in Northern Minnesota.”

“You insult me. Only red-skinned? And only Northern? I must work harder.”

The sheriff’s unit was battered, but it still ran well. A fast car on a smooth empty road would outdistance a big, stompy robot. Walking was walking. They had built quite a lead when they reached the outskirts of Duluth. Rounding the last bend, John threw the car into a skid trying not to hit the obstruction in the road.

“What’s all this?” Sullivan asked.

“I know exactly as much as you do. It looks like someone wants to challenge the robot to a game of pick up sticks.”

Stacks of logs tumbled this way and that across the road, with heaps of gravel and boulders as well. The mess reached from the lake shore all the way to the treeline.

“I think it’s a roadblock,” White Eagle said.

“Well, I don’t want to be on this side of it when that thing gets here. Do you?”

For answer, White Eagle grabbed his uniform cap, a picture of his daughter with her backpack on her first day of kindergarten, and finally his patrol rifle. They jogged into the maze of log and stone, and soon met with the SWAT trucks, which White Eagle thought of as “baby tanks.” They weren’t tanks of course, as the pedantic Sullivan never tired of pointing out, more like armored cars with big guns on top. Compared to a real police car like a Crown Victoria or Charger, though, White Eagle thought they definitely looked like tanks.

“John! John White Eagle!” a voice boomed from one of them. They headed toward it.

“Sheriff Richards?”

“We heard your friend here–” the sheriff offered a hand. “Agent Sullivan, I presume?”

“Frank Sullivan, Border Patrol. Good to meet you, Sheriff.”

“We heard what he told the federals and saw some news footage. These things are attacking all across the northern states.”

“That’s what the NMCC duty guy said. He didn’t quite believe us–would’ve liked to tell us to buzz off, but we weren’t the only crackpots yelling about giant robots. He didn’t give us any detail about the others, though.”

“Well, I decided that if the federals weren’t going to do anything, we’d have to do our best. We’re not going to let this thing into Duluth if we can help it.”

“Do you think you can stop it, though?”

“I think we’ve got to try. But we do have a chance. These toys you Washington boys sent us have Bushmaster auto-cannon. I don’t know if the DoD were expecting giant robot attacks, but we’ve got M919–”

“Which means what?”

“You’re the Fed–you don’t know?”

“I can’t remember the difference between M855 and M193, which I actually use. Just tell me, Sheriff.”

“Depleted uranium penetrators.”

“You—the county sheriff—have got depleted uranium armor piercing rounds? Isn’t that…highly felonious?”

“If so, it was entrapment. Those federal grant packages were…quite generous?”

“You might have a chance, after all. I sure hope you can stop that thing, Sheriff. It blew up my brand-new Suburban.”

“Yes, Agent Sullivan. That’s why we’re out here, to avenge your truck,” the sheriff said dryly.

“Sorry, sir. You’re right. I hope you can stop it for God, for America, and for apple pie; totally not for my lost ride.”

The Sheriff gave him a look reserved for something particularly loathsome on the bottom of a shoe and growled, “White Eagle’s been corrupting you, I see. Get out of my sight, both of you. Make yourselves useful, if you can. I’ve got a roadblock to command.”

The first part was easy enough to accomplish. The two scrambled out of the command vehicle. The second was less clear.

“What now?” Sullivan asked, outside.

“You keep asking that.” White Eagle glanced around. It looked like the regular cops and deputies, the ones without SWAT gear were mostly lined up on the barricades. “Find a spot and get ready for Buster’s Last Stand?”

“There I thought we had gotten away from that thing. Now we’ve got to stand here and–”

“Today is a good day to–”

“If you say ‘It’s a good day to die,’ Shitting Bull, I’m gonna let you do it right here, and go find someone I like better to die beside.”

White Eagle slung his rifle, and made a long arm into the idling patrol unit they were passing. “I was going to say ‘It is a good day to doughnut,’” he said, pulling out the mostly intact dozen. “Want one?”

Sullivan stared into the sky for a wordless moment. White Eagle thought he might be praying, but then he shook his head. “Sure. Why not? I don’t think that counting calories is my biggest worry today.”

They found a log pile that with no blue suits behind it and began to munch their ill-gotten gains. Not many minutes had passed before they heard the stomping of the giant Canadian snow-bot. “Ah,” White Eagle said, holding up his filled stick. “Maple glazed. So fitting.”

When the enormous thing, looking as tall as a lake freighter stood on end, came around the bend, the whole crew of deputies and police tensed. Suddenly their obstacle course of logs and boulders seemed insignificant as toothpicks and gravel. They hadn’t been able to comprehend the size of the thing from television and radio reports; seeing it in person was mind bending.

“Hold! Let it come closer!” Sheriff Richards boomed over his bullhorn. Fingers eased away from triggers, all down the line. “When it reaches the first log barricade, open fire!”

The mechanical monstrosity stomped nearer, and fingers eased back to triggers. Logs rolled from their stacks as the ground shook beneath them. John White Eagle didn’t think his puny little Mini-14 (a spicy remark to the armorer had landed him permanently at the bottom of the upgrade cycle list), likely to hurt the giant robot, yet he was ready to do his part. He checked his watch. His little girl would still be at school in the city. Damn.

The snow-bot did not cross the line of log barricades, but stopped fifty yards or so short. “What’s it doing?” Sullivan asked.

“Maybe it wants to make a speech?”

“You will not stop me. You cannot stop me! I will have my Vengeance!” Finn roared over the loudspeakers. “My plan was to make a demonstration. First Chicago, then the world. But, I can start teaching my lessons to you puny people here, if you wish it.”

He looked more closely at his navigational display. “Duluth! First Duluth, because it got in my way. Then Chicago, and then the world!” A ripple of missiles followed his words, scattering the thin blue line before him like ninepins.

Acackling laugh boomed from the speakers. White Eagle’s ears nearly bled. Concussion waves tore the air as every one of the SWAT team war wagons was blown into the sky, along with many of the unarmored units. The remaining officers, mostly on foot, hiding behind barricades like John and Frank’s own, opened fire with small arms, but the task seemed hopeless. The heavy Bushmasters might have had a chance, but puny little assault rifles had none. White Eagle tried to aim for things that might be breakable–camera lenses, missile noses–but the accuracy simply wasn’t there in the Mini. Still, he expended every magazine he’d brought before he decided that wisdom lay in flight rather than fight. Most of his fellows hadn’t waited so long; a uniformed tide flowed away from the maple-leafed murder machine stomping toward them.

Somewhere a determined officer still popped away with a nine millimeter, just before the screaming began. A car might outrun this thing, but men on foot didn’t have a chance. White Eagle ran faster than most, and soon overtook Sullivan, a big brawny man, not built for speed. All that size and muscle would do less good than the valiant fool’s pistol had done a moment before.

As he passed the bigger man, John pointed to the right, and yelled, “This way! Into the woods!” The destructive droid seemed to have its sights set on Duluth itself, and White Eagle was betting both their lives that it wouldn’t turn aside to chase a couple of stragglers.

When they reached the treeline, White Eagle ducked behind the bole of a big birch, and peeked. The robot was well into the group of fleeing men and women in blue and spitting death from several weapons. It seemed not to have noticed where they hid, however, and marched on.

When all hope of stopping the thing seemed lost, John White Eagle saw a stirring in the lake waters opposite their hiding place. Something large broke the surface. “Is that a submarine?” he asked Sullivan.

“What are you talking about? We don’t have any subs in Lake Superior!” he seemed not to have noticed the boil of water.

“Are you blind? That giant thing coming out of the water?” As soon as he spoke, however, White Eagle felt a fool. With a strangely giddy feeling in the pit of his stomach, he knew exactly what it was. Fairy stories indeed. His uncles, the traditional and spiritual ones, would love to see this.

There, walking up from the depths and crossing the rockbound coast onto the dry land of the highway, was a cat. Sort of. This cat’s body was the size of a school bus. Maybe two. It was a long way off, and White Eagle didn’t have any busses handy to measure it. The head was mostly feline, with swiveling ears and slit-pupil eyes, green and glaring. Above those, however, sprouted pink coppery antlers sparking with lightning. At the other end stretched a long tail, still trailing in the frigid waters of Lake Superior, though the rest of the beast stood on the highway.

The bizarre beast planted itself squarely in the giant robot’s path. It crouched, hissing, copper scaled skin rippling. That hiss was enough to freeze the marrow in White Eagle’s bones. He was very glad the cat was annoyed with the giant robot, and not with John White Eagle.

“It’s damn sure no submarine,” Sullivan said disbelievingly. “What is it, by God?”

“That…is Mishipeshu,” White Eagle intoned in his best Native Wisdom voice.

“Bless you. But what is it?”

“I just told you, Mishipeshu.”

“That’s a name? I thought you sneezed.”

“Mishipeshu is the Underwater Panther. It’s sort of a guardian spirit of Lake Superior. My people–”

“This is some Indian thing? That’s ridiculous–”

“Look…do I give you shit about naked people and talking snakes in apple trees?”

“Yes, frequently.”

“Okay, fair point. But maybe you shouldn’t call an honored spirit of my people ridiculous while it’s standing in front of you.”

“Here kitty, kitty kaiju,” Sullivan muttered. “I don’t care if it is real, it’s still really silly. Horns? Scales? I don’t know what all. It’s like we fell into the Saturday Night Creature Feature.”

Finn MacAvoy had never seen anything like the giant, scaled, feline creature before him. He didn’t let cognitive lag interfere with his combat reflexes, however. He wasn’t that sort of scientist. The creature facing him was large and obviously hostile; therefore it rated a missile strike. He rippled four at it. Cat-quick, the target wasn’t there when the missiles arrived.

Will the missiles have the sense and the fuel to come around for another pass?

They did not.

Two impacted the ground beyond the cat, two more flew on into the city.

While he watched the exhaust plumes recede, the cat-thing sprang, scimitar-claws slashing.

The giant mech rocked with the force of the blow, but armor and gyroscopic stabilization did their jobs. He wasn’t damaged–didn’t so much as fall.

Oh well, I guess there’s more than one way to kill a cat.

Finn selected the Vulcan auto-cannon, and depressed the firing key.

Brrrrrrt! White Eagle saw a huge Gatling gun on the robot’s arm start to spin and flame. The streak of tracers lanced out for Mishipeshu, but the cat wasn’t there. Again it had dodged the bullet. Or stream of bullets, in this case.

From the shaking of the ground, and the crashing of trees, White Eagle judged that Mishipeshu must have landed in the trees some distance to the west. He was glad of that; it wouldn’t do to wind up between the battling titans.

The robot turned and started for the city once more, having evidently decided that the cat was out of the game. Mishipeshu did not agree, however, and leaped on the robot from behind as it passed. Both fell in a jumbled mess. The cat-god-spirit-of-the-lake tried to sink its teeth into the robot’s neck, but the armor seemed proof against the colossal fangs. Two brutal swipes with its paws, however, knocked the missile pod-ears from the sides of the robot’s head.

A separate roaring sounded away to the east. “Look!” Sullivan cried, shaking White Eagle out of his fascination with the tremendous struggle. “The cavalry is here!”

A flight of four fighter planes swept in, engines shrieking. They circled the massive creatures locked in combat, but took no further action.

“Oh, good. The US Cavalry.” He did not physically roll his eyes, but the sound of rolling eyes was plainly audible in his voice.

“What’s the matter with them?” Sullivan fumed. “Can’t they see that thing? It’s right there. Why don’t they take it out?”

“Who knows? Present company excepted, I’ve never known the phrase ‘I’m from the government, and I’m here to help,’ to inspire any confidence. They probably forgot to bring their bombs, or something.”

White Eagle looked back to the fight before him, just in time to be horrified. Mishipeshu was cat quick, and more agile than anything that size had a right to be. The giant robot, on the other hand…was gargantuan: fast for its size, but not a patch on the lightning reflexes of the cat. It was also nearly invulnerable. And it seemed it had a titanic strength to go with its titanic size. Mishipeshu strained, trying to pry the metal head from the body. The robot clamped a metal gauntlet on the cat’s long sinuous tail.

Hand over hand it pulled the tail, and Mishipeshu screamed. A full-throated roar of anger and agony nearly matched the sound of claws raking steel, as Mishipeshu was dragged forward.

The giant mech held the cat-god-spirit in its inexorable grasp. It raised high, then slammed downward. White Eagle dreaded to see Mishipeshu broken on the ground. Instead a giant steel boot flashed forward with incredible speed for such a massive object, booting the cat high into the air. The resulting yowl dopplered away as the cat flew towards downtown Duluth, and the robot stomped after in pursuit, leaving massive craters in the tarmac at every step.

“John! Come on, will you? That Tahoe over there isn’t damaged. We might be able to use the radio.”

The two jogged toward it. White Eagle wanted to have wheels again, but he didn’t want to attract the robot’s attention. “I’ll drive. You do the thing with your secret codes and passwords.” Dodging the horrific new potholes as best he could, he eased the truck along the highway after the robot.

It was one of the hardest things he’d done in law enforcement, that ride. He had to watch, powerless, as the robot destroyed everything in reach. Usually a quick burst from its flamethrower would set a building alight. If it did not burn, a blow from an armored fist or boot, or plowing through sufficed. Hundreds had not fled in time. Screams followed the giant mech’s every move. Men, women and even children died or were maimed, while White Eagle, sworn to serve and protect, could do nothing but watch.

“…at last. Yes, I know this is a sheriff’s department radio. I told every link on the chain up to you that I know. I’m Agent Francis…”

There was no danger of losing the trail; the devastation rivaled a tornado for sheer destruction. Sullivan repeated his story. Again. And again.

Finally, the voice on the radio changed again, now clipped and businesslike. “Agent, this is Colonel Whithers. What do you need? We’re a bit busy up here.”

“I’m on the ground, and have eyes on the target. It’s at–”

The response frequency crackled before he could give the street name. “I can see the thing myself, Agent. I have no permission to engage the target at this time.”

“Can’t you get the permission?”

“I’m trying. Agent, you work for the same people I do. How many of your bosses would sign off on dropping ordnance on a major American city?”

“None,” Sullivan grumbled, before he keyed the mic. “Colonel, you’ve got to do something. That thing is destroying Duluth.”

“If I do, it’d destroy my career, Agent.”

“And you don’t think it will, if it’s known that you could have stopped this thing and decided not to–while the city burned?”

“If you’ve nothing else, the weather is getting ticklish up here. Good day, Agent.”

The connection with the circling planes was gone. All Sullivan could reach on the radio was the local dispatch network.

“Here comes the cavalry, eh?

“Shut up, John.”

“Federal promises, eh? Maybe if there were a few more of my people in the city, they wouldn’t feel so squeamish about shooting into it.”

Go easy on the big guy, John. As usual, White Eagle’s mouth got in front of his brain.

“I do see what he means about the weather. Look over–”

“I said ‘Shut up, John,’” Sullivan grated.

“Wait! Loo–”

“I said–”

“Frank, look over there. On the roof of that big red building.”

“The cat thing? It’s back?”

“Maybe it’s got nine lives, too.”

“Well, get close, maybe if we can’t do anything else, we can at least see what happens.”

They’d just reached a place where they could see the likely point of ambush, when the giant robot stepped too close to the red building. That lighting fast foot kicked out, trying to bring the building down, when Mishipeshu leaped. With the robot on one leg, the cat struck. They rolled, in a tremendous pile of thrashing, kicking, biting fury. The vicious tangle slammed into the red building, the swaying structure collapsed, tumbling down in a cataclysm of fractured concrete and twisted rebar.

“I sure hope that cat critter of yours does have nine lives,” Sullivan said, “It’s getting nine kinds of shit kicked out of it, right now.”

The robot had regained its feet, but Mishipeshu seemed dazed. Its forepaws curled over, scrabbling at the ground, but could not gain the purchase needed to rise. Suddenly, the robot leapt into the air, and came down on the cat-god-spirit with all its hundreds of armored tons.

“That looked like a wrestling move,” Sullivan said. “I think its called the ‘wigwamper-stomper.’”

John White Eagle looked over, stone-faced. “That kind of insensitive remark is very insulting to my people,” he said, before he grinned. “Also damn funny, but veeery insensitive.”

“No more than you deserve, after that crack about the government.”

“Do you see any government helping around here?”

“No, but I can’t see much of anything. It’s getting dark out there.”

Indeed, a black squall had blown up, nearly as dark as night. The robot, conveniently, turned on exterior lighting, the more proudly to display its maple leaf crest, as it continued its mission of destruction.

“At least we can see that thing, for what it’s worth.”

“I can still see Mishipeshu, too. I think it really must have nine lives. It’s getting up!” Suddenly, White Eagle had an inspiration. “Check the back! That pile of equipment, there might be a chainsaw.”

“A chainsaw? Why would a deputy be carrying a chainsaw? And what do you wanna do with a chainsaw anyway? Attack that thing?”

“Just look, already. Haven’t you been through one of our winters yet? Sometimes trees fall on the road, but we’ve still got to get through.”

The big man twisted and writhed into the back seat, then rooted through the piles of gear. “There’s a big Pelican case on the bottom.” He wrenched at the coils of rope, straps, and jumper cables, before he could open the case. “It’s a saw, alright. A doozie of a saw. It’s a Husky 394…”

“Sometimes really big trees fall. Remind me to send a thank you card to whoever’s unit this is.”

“I still don’t know what you wanna do with this thing,” Sullivan groused, as he smacked into the passenger door.

Mishipeshu screamed a challenge, stalking toward the robot, back arched and antlers glistening. The mech turned from the building it was torching.

“Gah, that noise!” Both men shuddered. A panther’s scream is famous for its chilling effect, but Mishipeshu was orders of magnitude more terrifying than a common panther.

Finn MacAvoy was fed to the earholes with this damned animal. It had cost his complete loadout of missiles. That in itself was infuriating, for he had stolen the most advanced designs in the US inventory, and then refined them until the results were peerless instruments of destruction. Yet here in their first test, this creature that should not exist evaded them easily. Embarassingly easily.

He began firing alternating bursts from flamethrower and autocannon as he advanced. One way or another, he would kill that thing. Burn it, shoot it, stomp it, it didn’t matter to him. All of the above would be none too good for the meddlesome beast.

John White Eagle skidded the Tahoe to a halt mere yards behind the robot. He started to get out. “Give me the saw, already,” he shouted over Frank’s cries.

“What are you doing?”

“Hurry up, the saw, and that can of pre-mix!” He worked quickly, trying not to think about the noises of the gigantic struggle mere yards away. With the saw fueled and primed, he yanked on the cord. Nothing. Again, and still nothing. “Damn it!”

“Give me that, runt!” Frank nearly ripped the pull cord off in his agitation, but the saw roared to life. “Now what?” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

“The power pole! That robot’s messed up everything in the city, but I haven’t seen it touch a power line. Maybe 70,000 volts will do something to it.”

The big agent lumbered to the nearest pole, and sank in the screaming chainsaw. White Eagle mentally blessed the saw’s owner. The teeth were sharp.

Three quick cuts, and Frank yelled “Timber!”

“You idiot,” White Eagle panted as they ran. “You want to get its attention?”

When they turned, the robot had other problems. The power line snagged on some protrusion on its thigh. Blue sparks arced all around it. The robot jerked in the current, but still functioned. Damn.

When the giant robot freed itself, that leg was stiff, but still it limped after its quarry.

Mishipeshu seemed to be at bay, ready to make a last stand. Yet at every lancing stab of bullets, every infernal blast of fire, it managed to spring, slip, or twist aside. As the robot limped inexorably onward, the cat-god-spirit retreated. It backed and backed, until it stood nearly under the causeway for the I-535 bridge. A light spring took it up onto the bridge, and still it slunk backward.

“Is it trying to get away?” Sullivan asked.

“I don’t think so. This looks like a plan, to me. I think Mishipeshu might have something to do with this storm…”

Then the robot jumped. White Eagle wouldn’t have thought such a construction capable of it, especially not with one bad leg, but still it made the jump easily. The massive machine slammed down onto the concrete of the roadway, causing cracks to open and chips to fall.

“Do you think the bridge will hold with those two on it?”

“Dammit, Jim, I’m an Injun, not a civil engineer.”

They neared the center of the bridge, the hump of steel girders that bridged the shipping channel into the inner harbor. Mishipeshu backed nearly up to the girders, and stopped.

The lightning crackled between its antlers like a Tesla coil. The building storm echoed in the heavens. The robot seemed indifferent and stomped on. With the cat finally out of room to run, the robot raised its auto-cannon arm, and prepared to fire.

Before the deadly bullets flew, the largest lightning bolt they’d yet seen struck the bridge girders behind Mishipeshu. It arced and flowed into the creature’s tail, and up its coppery, scaled body. When it reached the antlers, it blasted with tremendous power, right into the upraised arm of the robot. That arm froze. A moment later, and the flamethrower arm came up. Again the lightning flashed. The whole robot seemed to freeze.

“Come on, John, drive!” Sullivan urged. “If we can get up there in time, and the guy driving that thing is still alive–we could be there to make the arrest!”

“I don’t think there’s going to be an arrest today. Watch,” White Eagle advised.

Up on the bridge, Mishipeshu stalked toward the frozen robot. It sniffed contemptuously, then turned its back. As it did, the long, long, very long tail came around like a cracking whip, or a batter’s swing. It hit the robot hard, sending the many tons of steel flying off the bridge, out of the harbor, and into the frighteningly deep waters of Lake Superior.

A moment later, Mishipeshu, the guardian of the lake, the underwater panther, dove from the bridge to vanish into the storm-tossed waters far below.

In the awed silence of the Tahoe, the radio crackled to life. “Agent Sullivan, do you read, over?”

“Sullivan here.”

“Colonel Whithers, Agent. Do you still have visual on the target? We have permission to fire, but–”

Both men laughed almost hysterically, before Sullivan found the breath to say. “Too little, too late, Colonel. This problem’s been dealt with.”

4

RIGHTEOUS GOLIATH

BY BRYAN YOUNG

“They’ve come,” Ezra said, panting from effort as he poked his head into the hut where Sierra oversaw the work of the village.

“Echos?” she asked, putting down her tablet and meeting his eyes. He was shorter than she, and but no less wiry. They lived in a terrible wasteland of a colony that tended to make its occupants scrappy.

Ezra nodded gravely.

“We knew they would. From which direction?”

“The hills,” he said, still struggling to catch his breath.

She glanced at the comm unit on her wrist and found it set to do-not-disturb. That explained Ezra’s urgency and lack of breath. Her mind scanned about for the best explanation and a better plan. The hills at the rear of the village were normally their rear defense. By coming right over their hills, they were showing her that there was no where she could hide him.

“Do they want to parlay? Or is it a war party?” she asked.

Ezra shrugged and wiped the sweat from his face with the long rag of a sleeve covering his right arm. “You should probably come look, one way or the other.”

“Is he hidden?”

Ezra nodded affirmatively. “Just like the plan says.”

“Good. I want to avoid trouble if we can.”

“Same as always,” Ezra said.

Sierra locked her tablet in the desk drawer and exited the hut. The piercing yellow-orange rays of dusk cut a slanting shaft of light beneath the clouds of the day. A rainbow misted to life in the distance. If it weren’t for the incoming war party, it would have been a beautiful painting of a day.

Tightening her jacket at her neck to keep the drizzle and the breeze off her skin, Sierra made her way through the labyrinth of huts–all adobe walls and thatched roofs–that made up the community they called Peace Blade.

Colony worlds never had the best accommodations. Not for years after the initial settlement. Decades even. And that was if all of the communities got along well enough to let each other actually thrive. With the appearance of the Echo community’s warlords coming over the hills, it seemed as though Sierra’s community weren’t going to get much of a chance.

All she knew for sure was that she was going to keep him safe no matter what.

On the slope of the hill, the Echo leader slanted down in a sheer ride atop their mount, a local beast of burden they’d dubbed a falaset. They were shaggy and smelly, with gnarled horns for butting each other when they weren’t domesticated. What the Echos called them Sierra didn’t rightly know, but that didn’t matter. Behind the leader were a dozen warriors, all similarly outfitted and riding falasets, too. At the rear, a standard bearer bore a flag on a pole at his back, clearly defining who they were. And unless Sierra missed her guess, they were announcing what they planned to do. The flags were set with the images of war for the Echo community. And Sierra didn’t like one bit of it.

She had snipers in the huts, with their laser rifles trained on the enemies to their community. Sierra knew the Echo warriors no doubt had their own snipers in the trees on the hill, sighting her up even as she walked out to meet their leader in the presumption of peace and parlay.

“Ho there!” Sierra called out, raising her hands to show she wasn’t armed.

It was a dangerous move.

If they were determined, the Echo community could likely take anything they wanted from Sierra’s community by force and kill everyone in the Peace Blade community if they were determined. The Peace Blades could have probably done the same to the Echos if they wanted to, but they thought it was better to coexist than reach for the sword.

If they were attacked, though, they’d reach for the sword, surely enough.

Sierra didn’t recognize the leader who came to parlay with her. She’d dealt with a man before and this was a lithe woman, easy atop her mount, with the definite bearing of a warrior. Her long raven hair was pulled back into a braid across one shoulder, and where Sierra’s skin was a dark onyx, this woman’s skin was a milky white.

She approached the perimeter of Peace Blade, and instead of a having her mount jump the fence that edged the town—mostly to keep wandering animals out than people–she dismounted her falaset.

Hitting the ground, the Echo adjusted the laser blade hilts on her belt, as well as the pistol holstered on the other side. The scowl on her face told Sierra she was angry, and Sierra saw it in every action the woman took. There was an arrogance to her step, a way she held her posture above everyone else, and her eyes looked down on everyone. The thick scarf she wore around her neck covered her chin and the tails blew in the wind behind her.

She stopped at the fence, resting a palm on the pommels of her swords, and the other on the pistol.

There she remained, a statue of entitlement.

She was going to make Sierra come to her, which suited Sierra just fine. She’d rather not have the stern warrior woman in her community for a second, even just to parlay.

“Where is it?” she asked, her tone harsh. She was already on a war footing.

“He’s not here.”

“You’re lying,” the woman said through a clenched jaw.

“Maybe we should have started off on a better foot to begin with.” Sierra extended her hand to shake over the fence line. “My name is Sierra Jiminez and I’m the leader of this community. We call it–”

“Peace Blade, I know.” The woman spat at her own feet. “Ridiculous name for a town.”

“And what’s your name, then?” Sierra figured it was still worth it to try. Maybe they could still get through this without any violence. Though if he heard about it, Sierra was afraid of what might happen and whether any of these Echos would live to see another day.

He just wanted peace, too.

“If you want to name your doom, then you can call me Mariana. But I warn you, I’m not to be trifled with. So tell me now and tell me quickly: where is it? You’re hiding it, aren’t you?”

“I already told you, he’s not here.”

“We tracked it here; you’ve seen it. So where is it?”

“Yeah, he blew through here; we offered to let him stay, but he refused. You know how his kind can get. But if you tracked him here, then I’m sure you can track him back out whichever way he left.”

Sierra knew she wasn’t the best liar, but she figured this was one time where it could be easy enough. She couldn’t give him up. Least of all to the Echos. They’d either destroy him completely, just dismantle him for parts, or they would simply annihilate him. Turn him into nothing but slag.

Fire burned in Mariana’s eyes, and they were the only warm thing about the woman. “The tracks end here. We know you have it.”

“I say we don’t.”

“Then you’re going to learn not to lie to me.” Mariana, in her thick windbreaker, flowing in the wind and flecked with rain, turned on her heels and made her way back to her mount.

Sierra knew exactly what that threat meant. She wasn’t going to take it lightly, but neither was she going to give this woman the satisfaction of seeing her fear and inner turmoil. That was for the people of her community, and even then, she was still going to try to hide it.

Atop her falaset, Mariana trudged back up to the hill where her warriors and standard bearer waited for her. She shouted something lowly at them; Sierra couldn’t tell what, but over the wind, the rain carried the sound of the warlord woman’s anger.

Sierra waited for them to disappear into the hills and trees before herself, but she knew the Echoes would still be watching, meaning she couldn’t go straight to where they’d hidden him.

The last thing she wanted was an all-out war.

“They came for me again,” he said with his overly mechanical voice.

At first, the sound of his voice had been unsettling, but she’d quickly grown accustomed to it–even soothed by it. “It won’t be the last time, either. I figure they’re preparing an attack to come take you by force.”

“They will try, but I assure you that would end poorly for them.” Daisuke was the size of two men, across and tall, and made entirely of next generation materials. His face was a black mask of death, with penetrating red eyes, which made it all the more hilarious that he tried to fit in better by wearing a pointed dome of a straw hat and a scarf across his neck. When he had gone to cultivate the fields when he first arrived–a gesture he insisted upon in return for their hospitality–she got the distinct impression he looked as tall as a tree out there. Or, if she were sufficiently far away, it made the fields look even closer than they were. But his time in the fields ended the first time an Echo scout spotted him.

It was almost as if he’d forgotten that he was a weapon of war built by those who paid to have the planet settled. But it seemed as though his programming had been fried. He no longer remembered his designation or how he got there. He just wanted to help.

The children of the village had taken to calling him Daisuke, and the name stuck.

“If they come,” “Sierra said, “you should stay here. Let us take care of it.”

His eyes flared red and he bobbed his head to the left like a curious bird. “Would it be considered rude of me to defend myself and the community while under your protection?”

Sierra nodded. “Yes. Very rude.”

“But I would not want anyone to be hurt on my account.”

“We can handle it. Besides, you don’t even know if all your systems work or are accounted for.”

“My diagnostics have completed. I am in full and proper working order.”

“Be that as it may, I think it’ll only make it worse for everyone, the Echos included, if you start tearing up the place. Do you even know why they want you?”

Although his shoulders could not shrug in a real, human sense, Sierra seemed to think he was trying to do just that before he spoke. “For better or for worse, they believe me to be a weapon, and what martial society does not wish for a bigger or better weapon?”

“A society that wants peace.”

“And that is why I am here, as a weapon who also wants peace.”

“You’re not a weapon.”

“Tell that to the Echos,” he said coldly.

Sierra didn’t even realize that an android like Daisuke could modulate such frigidity into its voice.

She learned something new every day.

“What if I left?” Daisuke said with more of that robot coldness.

“No, you shouldn’t have to leave because of them.”

“I am left with few options. It would be rude of me to stay and fight for my own defense, and hiding while you spend your lives on my protection seems anathema. The only logical move at that point is to go far away from here, where they cannot find me and where you will be safe from their reprisals.”

“We don’t want you to go.”

“But neither do I wish to stay hidden. I desire to be a productive member of the Peace Blade community.”

“You are that, even if you hide.”

He made a disappointing sound that could have been mistaken for a groan had it not buzzed with electronic life.

“Just give us a chance to do this our way. You said when you came here that you were done with killing. I don’t want to force you back into a life you don’t want.”

“We will see,” was all he said, and they both left the conversation there.

For two days, all was quiet, and Daisuke remained in the hut like a prisoner without complaint, as though that was his lot in life. He hated it, Sierra could tell. She’d had no idea that robots could simulate sighing so effectively.

It was on the third day that she found him missing from the hut, and knew all hell was going to break loose.

“Where is he?” she asked Ezra, who was supposed to have been guarding the door.

Ezra shrugged. “I thought he was inside.”

“You didn’t check?”

“I was watching the door.”

Sierra walked around the hut and realized he’d lasered a hole through the back wall large enough for him to escape. “Did he just leave?” she said out loud, mostly to herself.

But that’s when the commotion started.

“He’s in the field!” a voice yelled.

And Sierra’s crest fell. Deep in her heart, she knew this would be the end of Daiskue, Peace Blade, or both.

Racing to the edge of town, Sierra saw him there, planted amongst the rice, the reflection of his armor in the still water made him look twice his size. There he was, planting their off-season crop, designed to grow even in the harshest conditions of a new planet. His oversized woven hat and scarf made him look like a peaceful cartoon of a samurai who’d chosen a life of quietude.

He hadn’t a single care in the world.

He’d bend over, embed a plant in the swamp, and stand back up again to his full height. If he’d had a mouth, she knew he would’ve been smiling. She couldn’t afford that luxury of a smile. Someone was going to get killed over his little farming jaunt.

“Daisuke!” She waved at him, trying to draw his attention.

He turned to regard her, and she saw the white lights of his eyes, no longer the tense red they’d been—he seemed genuinely happy again. They were only white for a moment, before they flashed like flames and he raised his broad, metal hands as if to warn her. “Sierra!”

And that’s when she felt it.

A burning in her back.

Confusion tightened her face.

Her brow furrowed.

Then she collapsed in the rice field.

She came quickly to the realization that she must have been tagged by a sniper’s laser bolt, and everything after that happened in slow motion. The Echos really had been watching for his appearance and were ready to pounce as soon as they realized he was there.

Sierra kept her head raised and her eyes focused on Daisuke. His left fist transformed into the barrel of a gun running the length of his arm. It charged white hot and the blast came with a terrible boom.

Though underwater, bells rang in her ears, and Sierra faintly heard someone shout that the sniper was down. But Daisuke didn’t cease his own war footing. He ducked out of the way of a fiery blast and shot back again. At who, Sierra couldn’t tell.

That’s when the roaring sound of speeders filled her ears, replacing the distant buzz and underwater noises.

They careened over the water of the rice paddies, spraying it up into the air in long tails behind them. They came from two different directions, on either side of Daisuke. On one of them was Mariana, her scarf flying in the wind in a long straight line behind her. Her goggles glinted in the late-morning sun and even at that distance and speed, Sierra saw the sneer on her face.

Daisuke fired at her, but she swerved around the shot. His laser blast missed her narrowly and flew into the wilds beyond.

“Help,” Sierra groaned, pointing to the Echos on speeder bikes. “Help him!”

Ezra had been crouched over her. She hadn’t even realized it, but she swatted him away, sending him to do something, anything–to help defend Daisuke from the Echos.

“What about you?”

“Forget about me,” she snarled. “If they capture and reprogram him, we’re all dead anyway.”

Ezra considered that for a moment, and then solemnly left her to die.

And she was fine with that.

She had cards left to play. She wasn’t helpless. Being shot in the back didn’t automatically mean perishing, now did it?

She was going to crawl back to her knees, no matter how much she was bleeding and do something–anything–to help.

Because it was the right thing to do.

Daisuke grew another meter in height and width, unable to contain his rage. And she wondered how big he could get with the flexible material he was made of. Maybe it was the right move, but all she could think of was that he was making himself a bigger, easier target.

Water sprayed across the rice-paddies-turned-battle-field as the speeders circled the towering visage of Daisuke. Doing her best to track the action from her vantage point, Sierra saw Marianna call out, “Now!” though she couldn’t actually hear the words, still drowning in pain, with the oppressive sounds of tidal waves in her ears, and the shock of her laser burn. Clawing to get into even a half-upright position, Sierra watched as they fired grappling hooks attached to gossamer lines from their hoverspeeders. Once they had their hooks in the Enforcer android, they circled Daisuke rapidly.

Increasing their altitude, they raised the bikes higher in order to encompass his thick arms into the web of their circling lines. By the time Sierra was able to make it to her feet, it looked like they’d trapped him completely. Swaying there, trying to keep from passing out from the shooting pains in her back, she looked over to Ezra. He looked on in blank horror, clutching his rifle as though he’d never fired a laser in his life.

Sierra wiped the spit from her mouth with her forearm and snatched the rifle from him. “Give me that.”

He might have said something in response, but she didn’t catch what it might have been. The grunt of his voice merely sounded distant.

As the two speeders circled Daisuke, he struggled against the tight line they entrapped him with. If someone didn’t do something soon, then maybe they would be able to capture him.

Sierra struggled to raise the laser rifle into firing position, holding the stock against her cheek and lining up the complicated shot. She watched Marianna and her stooge circle over and over again, doing her best to get a sense of the timing. Breathing in slowly, trying to calm her heart rate, she calculated exactly when she needed to fire in order to free the colossus from his bonds and give him a chance to once more to live the free life he so desperately hoped for.

She would not let him be relegated to living as mere chattel for the Echos.

Sierra inhaled and held the breath and at the top of her lungs, then fired. Her heart still beat too fast, a hummingbird pace, and she couldn’t tell if her eyesight and equilibrium were still off from the concussive force she experienced or if she just whiffed the shot completely, but the crimson laser cut through nothing but the clear blue sky.

The stray shot was enough to catch Marianna’s attention, and the Echo warrior drew a pistol of her own, keeping it leveled in Sierra’s general direction while keeping her speeder making its tight circles around Daisuke.

Sierra had to admit it was an expert bit of handling, but she didn’t want to make things easy for the Echo.

So Sierra fired again.

Her own laser missed by a wide margin again, but Marianna’s return fire came dangerously close to frying Sierra’s face.

Some quiet voice at the back of Sierra’s head told her this was how she died.

She knew it.

But if she kept Daisuke free, it would be worth it. Not just for her community, but for Daisuke himself. It didn’t matter that he was a manufactured monstrosity, If he was going to choose a life of peace and protection, she was going to be damn sure she did everything she could to secure it for him.

Sierra pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession, as the second Echo warrior on the bike curved around Daisuke. The first and second laser missed, but the third burrowed right into the hover bike, which erupted in a brilliant explosion, throwing the warrior from the seat and skimming across the water.

Marianna was forced to stop shooting at Sierra and over-correct her own bike, changing directions, which gave Daisuke just enough room to maneuver.

A lasered blade, bright and glowing green, protruded from Daisuke’s fist like a sword, slicing through the lines they’d wrapped around him like so much spider’s web.

Maybe he didn’t need her help after all.

It didn’t matter what his reason for waiting was, Daisuke gripped tightly on the line streaming from Marianna’s hoverbike and tugged firmly on it. The speeder hovered in place for the sparest of moments, like a kite on a string, and then, against the jets of the engine, it came reversing back toward Daisuke. He slashed violently at it with his blade, cutting the back half clean off, sending Marianna tumbling into the water of the field.

Watching the carnage, Sierra’s heart beat faster, though that wasn’t a good thing if she needed to aim her rifle.

From behind her, another laser blast flew beyond the village and crashed into Daisuke’s middle. There were more of them. In the village itself.

Turning to see , since she still couldn’t hear them, Sierra watched a trio of pirates racing through the village. One had his rifle aimed at Daisuke, the other two used laser pistols to shoot the members of the community they passed by, armed or not.

Sierra felt a growl rattle in her chest. She had to put a stop to it. She had to put a stop to them.

Raising her rifle, she opened fire, barely taking the time to aim.

She drilled a hole in the neck of the first one–one of those shooting the villagers. The laser took him viciously and he crumpled to the ground. Shifting her aim, she used her laser to vaporize the knee of the other Echo shooting at her people.

Then, she looked straight to the Warrior aiming for Daisuke. Unfortunately, by that time, he realized that he was once again a target and shifted his aim to Sierra.

They fired at each other wildly. A laser bolt hit caught the Echo in the side, whirling him like a dervish. They fired in an arc as they twisted to the ground. Laser bolts came speeding from his rifle and sprayed toward her.

Sierra flinched, closing her eyes for the briefest of seconds, but some sound returned to her ears enough for her to hear the pained “oof!” of Ezra beside her. Matched with the smell of sizzling flesh, she knew before looking that he’d been hit.

She couldn’t understand it. He’d just stood there, defenseless, since she’d taken his rifle from him.

What else was she supposed to do? Let him stand there not doing anything when she could at least do something?

The third Echo Warrior fell to the ground, finally. With that acute attack in the village taken care of, Sierra staggered over Ezra and lifted him into her lap, holding him like a child. “Why did you do that? Why didn’t you take cover?”

“Tryin’ to help,” he said, the life rapidly dwindling from his face.

“You don’t help by not listening…”

“Get ’em, Sierra…” he said.

And then his eyes glazed over, focusing into the middle distance to whatever great beyond he might’ve seen.

Sierra roared with anger. She stood, leaving the body of her friend in the hard soil at the edge of the village, between the huts and the fields. Then she raised her rifle wanting to pay them back somehow.

Looking back to the field, the scene had shifted drastically.

Marianna stood there, calf-deep in the water, backing up, a tiny, evil David to Daisuke’s righteous Goliath. Daisuke held her back with a great swing of his laser sword. Water steamed between them from the heat of the blade.

That’s when Marianna started laughing.

Sierra couldn’t hear her, not with the distance between them and the heat of the fight, but she saw it. A deep, concerning belly laugh.

What was she laughing at?

Whatever it was came from out of the sky, streaking like a launched rocket.

Another Enforcer.

Like Daisuke.

Instead of cobalt steel skin, it had a slate gray covering. It looked older, more rounded than Daisuke, and from a different manufacturer. But it was no less ready to destroy anything that got in its way.

The newcomer landed in the water like a meteor striking the ground, likely destroying an entire field of Peace Blade’s crops. Water sprayed everywhere, drenching Marianna and sending water cascading down Daisuke’s front.

Sierra couldn’t let him fight alone.

As the two behemoths duked it out, each of them parrying and and thrusting with their glowing laser swords, Sierra took aim at Marianna.

She took the first shot–a miss–and began taking tentative steps into the field. Sierra wasn’t solid on her feet, but she had to do something. Marianna had to be stopped.

She got it into her ringing head that if she ended Marianna, then the fight would end, too, even between the enforcers.

As she staggered forward she stepped into the water of the field and struggled against it. It made it harder to walk, but she was that much closer to her enemy.

Marianna turned her attention to Sierra. There was little she could do to affect the clash of the titans. It made sense that she would direct her attention to the human her people couldn’t manage to kill.

Sierra didn’t want to die–she had no wish for death. But she did wish for peace. And they only way the people here were going to get it was if Sierra made it happen.

Marianna ducked as her own monster slashed at Daisuke, but Daisuke parried capably, bringing up a hefty leg up to damage his evil counter-part. It didn’t work. The gray machine staggered back, but wasn’t dead or down for the count in any sense of the phrase.

Marianna raised her laser pistol and fired—at least she tried to fire. The water must have shorted out her weapon. She growled at Sierra, tossing the pistol aside, giving Sierra a chance to shoot back. Between the pain and the water in her eyes, Sierra missed again.

That’s when Marianna sprinted forward, as fast as her legs would allow through the water, running straight for Sierra. It didn’t matter at that point what was going on with the robots, the whole world became the two of them.

They met as Daisuke and the gray monster battered each other, shooting one another at point blank range with their weapons. A sheet of armor chipped away from the “Echobot’s” gray frame. A blast slagged chunks from Daisuke’s steel body, dripping melted armor into the water and sizzling it into hot steam.

Sierra was able to get one more shot off before Marianna reached her.

The laser burned a hole in Marianna’s shoulder, so maybe at that point they’d be even for their fight. It would be close, one way or the other.

Fury blossomed in Sierra’s middle.

She just wanted to be left alone.

She wanted all of her people to be left alone.

She wanted Daisuke to be left alone.

And if she had to tear apart the Echo warrior with her bare hands to do it, she would.

Marianna tried tackling Sierra, growling the whole time, but Sierra side stepped and landed her fist right into Marianna’s burned shoulder.

She screamed. Of course she did.

But Marianna side stepped through the pain and gripped Sierra into a hold.

With Marianna’s forearm around her neck, the breathing that was already difficult became almost impossible for Sierra.

“You should have just given him to us,” Marianna said through clenched teeth and all the ringing in Sierra’s ears.

Sierra tried responding, but even a groan was too much. She collapsed to her knees. The water soaked into her clothes and the tingling sensation of oxygen loss began at her feet and fingers. She clawed at Marianna’s arm, trying to get the woman to let go, but there was nothing to be done.

Her grip was too firm.

Black sparks danced at the edge of Sierra’s vision and she lost sight of everything when she was pulled down into the water.

She bucked and thrashed like a drowning shark, trying to find air, to quell her burning lungs, and to find a way to win against her aggressor.

Her back ached, shooting pain from the burns all the way up through her neck and into her head. Her hands and feet she couldn’t feel at all.

Sunlight filtered through ten centimeters of water gave way to black ovals expanding into the center of her vision…

…and then she let go.

Everything swam.

And she felt like she was floating to the surface. The light brightened beyond her eyelids, black to red, and she wondered if she’d ever open her eyes again.

Pain entered her chest. Her lungs burned with water.

Was this death?

Something pounded against her breastbone.

And again.

Choking, gasping for breath, the water suddenly vacated her lungs and she couldn’t stop coughing. And when she finally opened her eyes, Daisuke stood above her.

“My diagnostics indicate that you will be all right,” he said.

The red had gone from his eyes, transformed into a soft light, the color of her favorite reading lamp cast against the white page of a book.

“What happened?”

“I have neutralized the threat.”

Daisuke cradled her in his arms like a baby, and with his free hand indicated the scrap of his enemy on the other side of the field, gurgling in the water. Then, he indicated Marianna, who floated face down in rice paddy, a gaping hole in her center.

“How did you…? Why…?”

“We protect our peace,” he said simply, almost like he was spouting poetry. “And I will protect you.”

His robotic face—if it could be called that—had a warmth to it she didn’t understand. Almost as though he were smiling at her, but there was nothing but the angled geometry of the mask pate below his expressive eyes.

He sort of smiled. “You did the same for me.”

Sierra tried to sit up, but the pain in her lungs and at her back, even the burning around her throat that was surely bruising over already was too much. She cringed and collapsed back into his embrace.

“Do not move. The doctor will examine you further. But you are alive and will live. That is what matters.”

“Why did you do this? Why did you go out there?”

“I refused to be a prisoner. I am grateful for your sanctuary and refuge, but I could no longer hide.”

“And why did you fight them?” she asked, unsure of what his motives could possibly be.

“They say the best people are those among us who can see a stranger and respond not with hatred, but kindness. The people of Peace Blade treated me with kindness and earned my protection.”

Sierra took in another deep breath, still confused by the war machine’s new philosophy.

She supposed they didn’t have to help him. They should have feared him.

But that wasn’t their style.

“How can we repay you?” Sierra said. “You saved us.”

It wasn’t lost on her that his very presence is what made the Echo community lash out, but that didn’t matter. They would have found some other pretense to attack sooner or later.

“Because we help each other. That is the natural order I wish to be a part of.”

“I didn’t know they programmed you to be a warrior poet.”

His face seemed to contort into an even wider smile. “Peace Blade is an apt name for your community.”

She was about to say something else, but he shushed her. “Save your strength. After the doctor begins the town’s rebuilding.”

And she figured that with their very own enforcer robot, things would be a little easier.

“’Daisuke’…you know what it means, right?” she asked him.

He nodded. “Ancient Terran. Japanese. Dai for the symbol meaning immense. Suke for the symbol meaning help and support. Daisuke. Massive or immense Support.”

“It fits you,” she said to him.

“I’m glad.”

And she knew peace had finally come to Peace Blade. Right at the end of robot’s laser blade.

5

AMAZON BLACK

BY SPEARMAN BURKE

Zombie brooded over another highlight reel of a performance in his mecha jockey career. He placed the empty tumbler of Glen Charon Hokkaido on the bar in front of him. The haze of hookah pipe smoke hung in the low ceiling of The Triple Threat sports pub. All around the joint, news-holos replayed his humiliating defeat at the recent Calamity Derby over and over and over. The enthusiastic voice-over of the sportscaster accompanying the play-by-play did nothing but punch holes in his sinking spirit. He ran a hand over his unshaven face.

“Dishoom! Man, what a hit!” The streaming holo displayed a scorched mech staggering under a hail of air-bursting cluster munitions. “That probably crippled some systems! Let’s see if her pilot can get back in the fight!”

The wounded mech unleashed a rotary cannon burst. The rounds impacted ever-just-so wide of its target, now charging forward with a raised power fist crackling with energy.

“But here comes Monster X!” The voice-over could barely be heard over the discharge of the impacting power fist. Forked tongues of electrical energy arced from Monster X’s fist into the beleaguered mecha. “Zot! That’s all she wrote! Fat ladies are singing funeral dirges across the system tonight!”

Smoke rose from the scored and pock-marked frame of the struggling war machine. Sparks leapt from its fried servos and joints. It feebly raised its rotary cannon then toppled with agonizing slowness into the cracked concrete of the battleground of the Zona Pugna.

“Another disappointing performance for the Amazon Black. This seems to be becoming a habit for her pilot, the once lauded Zombie.” The relish in the announcer’s voice burned like acid in Zombie’s ears. “He’s lucky Zona officials didn’t deploy fire control rescue drones to cut him out of the mech. That would have been embarrassing!”

Dammit if he didn’t hate losing more than he loved winning. Were they streaming this on a freakin’ loop? He caught the bartender’s eye and tapped his glass with two fingers.

“Sure thing, Zombie.” The barkeep snatched up a bottle of high-end Nippon whisky and gave the morose pilot a generous pour.

Zombie wasn’t his real name. He’d picked up the call sign piloting mechs in the Albigensian war zone. It sounded slick to the uninitiated, but its origin remained less than flattering.

“That’s some top shelf action, Zombie. Edi wow!” A sibilant voice accompanied the sharkskin suit which slithered into the adjacent stool. “Sure you can afford it on your budget?”

Maintaining a combat-mech remained a costly affair at the best of times. The local Halla Maorga loan sharks, like the slippery eel who’d addressed him, were not known for their patience. He owed them and everything he had remained invested in the Amazon Black. Targeting upgrades, ammunition, acoustic sensors, haptics, all tied up in a dismal outcome. The losing streak rendered no aid to his floundering bar tab, either.

“Boscoe knows I’m good for it.” Zombie raised his glass in a lazy salute to the bartender and tasted the whisky. In contrast to his new companion, Zombie wore a black tanker jacket with tan fire-resistant lining. The name Amazon Black splashed across his back emblazoned in yellow letters. His worn dungarees needed cleaning, and his boots remained scuffed and unpolished.

Boscoe snorted, giving the gangster a sideways look as he moved down the bar out of earshot. Sports holos continued to play their tragic highlight reels, much to Zombie’s regret.

“We have an accounting issue.” The man turned in his seat. The teal sheen of the sharkskin added to his serpentine quality as he moved. “Ala eh, you’re overdrawn.”

“C’mon, Sulus.” Zombie turned his head. “I don’t even know what the repairs are gonna cost yet.”

Leaning his elbows on the bar and steepling his fingers, Sulus Sly slowly shook his head.

“Dugan Singh supported you when you needed it–outfitted your rig, sponsored you. You’ve given him no significant return on his investment.” Sulus shrugged.

Zombie glanced into the mirror behind the bar. Behind him sat a couple of hard looking goons who had probably accompanied Sulus into the bar. They also wore dark sharkskin suits. Their chiseled features showed little to no sympathy. Scar tissue flourished where their eyebrows should have been. Zombie couldn’t detect any combat mods, but Halla Maorga gangsters tended to be more discreet with their body modifications. His own surgical mods had to do with piloting a mech, not wringing necks.

“What are we saying constitutes a return on investment?” Zombie wanted to be cool, but his gut turned at the prospect of losing his rig.

“Ah, you’ve got the right attitude about this.” Sulus smiled. At any moment Zombie expected to see a forked tongue flick over his teeth. “This will make Dugan Singh very happy.”

“I’m sure it will.”

“Come to the Imperial tonight.” Sulus slipped a card across the bar. “You can discuss this with Dugan Singh in person.”

Sulus slipped off the bar stool. He motioned to his two associates, who also rose. They grinned like schoolyard bullies who’d just taken Zombie’s lunch money.

“They let you keep the mech?” Boscoe poured another two fingers of whisky into Zombie’s tumbler.

“Why take ownership of a mech when they already own her driver?”

Zombie approached the steps of the Imperial, hands thrust firmly in the pockets of his jacket. The notorious gambling parlor and cartel clubhouse flourished under the ownership of Dugan Singh, legendary gambler, gangster, and political fixer. His operation employed hundreds of operators, workers, and gangers within the cogs of the racketeering machine that ran the beating heart of this quarter of the core habitat. The Halla Maorga fixed itself where the ruling elite intersected with the rough, filthy realities of the core.

The glaringly enhanced doormen of the club allowed him to cut the line of waiting patrons when he flashed the card Sulus gave him. The wide bodies of the bouncers blocked his view of the complaining club goers pointing out his distressed dungarees and tanker jacket were not compliant with the establishment’s dress code policy.

Zombie strolled into the main gallery of the casino portion of the club and approached Dugan Singh, who held court at a card game. Well-to-do gamblers laughed at Singh’s jokes over outrageously expensive hands of Pai Gow. A mountain of a security goon placed a dinner plate sized palm on Zombie’s chest halting him. The brute glanced over his shoulder at Singh.

The gangster appraised Zombie with a practiced eye. Wolfishly lean and tough, Zombie would never be as physically impressive or imposing as Singh or the chemically enhanced muscle in his employ. Dugan Singh motioned for Zombie to approach and excused himself from the table.

“Zombie! Welcome to the Imperial!” Singh threw a thick arm around Zombie’s shoulders in a way that implied ownership. “How’re you holding up?”

“My mech-rig is in the shop, and I don’t know if she’ll be ready for the next derby.” Zombie shrugged.

“Ah, that’s already being taken care of, lad.” Singh waved a dismissive hand. “We’ve got some of the best mech-apes wrenching on her right now.”

Zombie stiffened. They’d already taken possession of Amazon Black and were making their own modifications to her. Damn all.

“And what exactly am I doing with her?” Zombie did away with any pretense. He was their man now.

“Sulus said you had your head on right about this.” Singh chuckled and patted him on the back. “Here’s the deal.”

Singh sat him down at an empty table and signaled for some drinks. An attractive waitress hustled to the bar. Hard-boiled goons in expensive suits lingered just out of earshot.

“Monster X is piloted by a real hot up-and-comer.” Singh leaned back in his seat. The rings on his fingers flashed as he drummed them on the table. The waitress returned and placed their drinks in front of them. Amber liquor glinted warmly within the expensive crystal.

“Terco.” Zombie savored the 25-year-old, single-malt scotch. It made the premium brands he normally preferred taste like they’d been distilled in a urinal. “He does alright.”

“More than alright.” Singh smiled a knowing smile. “We’re betting Monster X makes it to the Final Four in the next Derby.”

“Final Four?” Zombie raised an eyebrow. “Those are long odds.”

“But a great pay-off.” Singh tilted his head with a slight nod. “Do we understand each other?”

“Of course.” Zombie examined the swirling amber in his glass. “Anything else?”

“You know what to do.” Singh spread his arms along the back of booth. The meeting just ended.

“Thank you for the drink, Mr. Singh.” Zombie tossed back the rest of his scotch. He stood and headed back through the casino gallery.

He saw Terco, draped in a silk shirt and a handful of sighing bimbos. Hangers-on and sycophants clustered in his orbit around the craps table. Instead of breaking this clown in the Zona Pugna wastelands, now Zombie had to ensure his success. What were the chances Terco wouldn’t notice him slinking through the joint?

“Oy! Zombie!” Terco’s face lit up with mirth. He shouted for the benefit of his hangers-on: “There’s a dead man walkin’!”

The retinue of suck-ups burst out in a gale of cruel laughter. Zombie leveled his eyes at Terco. He imagined cathartically grinding the man’s flailing body under one of the Black’s steel feet. Terco blinked, then turned to one of women hanging on him and kissed her roughly.

Zombie continued past not breaking stride. As he headed through the blackjack tables a wall of human flesh barred his way, appearing as if from nowhere. How such a large man could move so nimbly remained a bit of a mystery to him.

“This way, Mr. Zed.” The low voice rumbled like a distant volcano as the massive gentlemen motioned Zombie through a side door. Right about now Zombie felt genetically robbed or at least wondering when in his life he missed all the opportunities to be scientifically engineered into a land whale.

The bouncer ushered him into a back hallway and out another door onto a loading dock behind the building. Land whale shut the door behind him as he stepped out. Zombie sighed and headed down off the dock into the service alley. Can’t have the help ruin the aesthetic of a classy joint like the Imperial, after all.

Once in the full darkness of the alley, Zombie paused. The hair on the back of his neck stood up in warning. He removed his fists from his pockets.

“Hey there, Zombie.” Sulus Sly’s slow and fricative voice emanated from the dark. “Dugan Singh wanted us to leave you with a little reminder on your way out.”

Zombie slipped the first few punches, surprising his attackers. His mods weren’t designed for street combat, but they did assist his reaction speed and timing. He recognized the two goons from earlier at the Triple Threat.

“No head trauma, boys.” Sulus’ voice sound like air escaping a punctured tire. “Our guy has to drive later.”

They came at him hard to the body. Zombie moved and rolled with their punches. The restriction on head trauma didn’t apply to him. He stood up fully into a palm heel strike with a satisfying smash into the nose of one of the goons. The man staggered and cursed. Zombie never took a beating for free. He hated losing more than he loved winning.

The two combatants with their superior combat mods quickly overwhelmed him, but Zombie kept swinging the whole way down. A fast shot to his liver nearly ended the whole discussion. As he buckled to his knees, Zombie clubbed a fist into the groin of one of his assailants. The man bent over with his hands on his knees shaking his head. His buddy with the smashed nose chuckled.

“That’s what we like about you, little panlaban.” Sulus smiled down at him. “You’re a scrapper.”

“Huwag kalimutan.” Sulus kicked him savagely in the belly. Zombie rolled to the deck unable to get his breath. Sulus kicked him one more time. The Halla Maorga always had the last word.

“Like I said, just a reminder.” Sulus pulled a pocket square from his suit and polished the toe of his shoe. “Monster X. Final Four.”

They left him gagging in the shadows of the alley, curled up in a ball of misery.

Late the next morning Zombie tracked down the mech shop turning wrenches on the Amazon Black. No one at the warehouse where he’d kept her put much of a fight when a squad of Halla Maorga showed up with a wrecker and hauled her away. The workshop wasn’t difficult to find, considering there were only so many mechanics capable of outfitting sport mechs and Zombie knew all of them. Not to mention everyone in the mecha combat game knew who Dirty Steve was beholden to.

Entering the bay of Dirty Steve’s, Zombie averted his eyes from the welding arcs of the mechanics working on various projects. The workspace reeked of the rich dank smell of dirty motor oil, solvents, and chassis grease. The whine of impact wrenches revved and rattled throughout the shop. Up front were the up-armored grav cars favored by Maorga gangsters. A few internal combustion engine driven wrecks littered the shop as well. It gave the place an air of legitimacy.

Out back one of the larger bays housed the Amazon Black. He waved a hand at some of the mechanics he knew and caught the eye of Dirty Steve.

“What’s shakin’, Zombie?” Dirty Steve didn’t get his name from his disheveled appearance, filthy coveralls, or even from his dubious business dealings. It derived from his questionable hygiene, and he seemed to be the only person who didn’t know it.

“Just checking on my girl.” Zombie made sure he stood close enough to be polite but just far enough away to keep his eyes from watering. “What’s her loadout slated for?”

Steve grabbed up a tough-pad and ran a stylus over the screen. He tapped it here and there until it brought up the job he wanted.

“We’ve got the Black fitted with a GAU pattern rotary cannon and 25,000 rounds of 20-millimeter green tips. Two 75-millimeter rocket pods with point detonating warheads. Standard countermeasures battery, physical chaff, flares, and drone support suite.”

“Green tips? Seriously?” Zombie gestured at the screen inadvertently penetrating the outer miasma of Steve’s body odor. “Can’t you at least get me some kinetic penetrators mixed in there?”

“Sorry, Zed.” Steve shrugged his shoulders. “This is the table of equipment we’re paid to install.”

“No smoke?”

“Derby officials don’t want the mechs to carry smoke no more.” Steve scratched under his chin with the stylus. “Viewers can’t see the action if the combatants lay down smoke everywhere.”

“But I’ll barely scratch their paint with this trash!”

“Zombie, everyone knows you’re a good mech jockey.” Dirty Steve stepped in close, his breath filled Zombie’s nostrils with the shocking bouquet of an autopsy. “But everyone also knows your star is not ascending, get it?”

“Ugh, yeah man.” Zombie’s shoulders slumped with a large exhale. “Who’s working on the drone suite?”

Steve looked down at his tough-pad. “Goofy Foot is. He’s over there outfitting Black right now.”

“Right.” Zombie turned away and breathed in a lungful of relatively fresher air. He waved a hand over his head. “Thanks Steve.”

Steve waved a perfunctory hand but had already moved on to better things.

Zombie strolled through the bay until he caught sight of the weathered flat black and yellow paint-job of the Amazon Black. Ten meters of mechanized combat steel and sex appeal. A few unpainted plates of reinforced polymers patched up the damaged glacis of her torso pilot housing. The well-oiled and maintained rotary cannon ran down the length of the Black’s right arm. The left arm ended in a powerful three-fingered gauntlet.

He ran a hand along the chipped ceramic and steel of her left leg. The technicians had installed bright new servo motors to support articulation and precise motion. Cosmetically ugly as sin, Amazon Black seemed as gorgeous as ever.

Goofy Foot worked high up on the scaffolding, installing drone launcher housings along the top of the Black’s rear armor.

“Hey Goof.” Zombie ascended the ladder and took a seat on the scaffolding. His legs dangled over the side. “Whatcha got cooking for me?”

“Standard complement.” Goofy Foot smiled up at Zombie from the awkward position he worked from, his nose smudged with grease. “A couple of recon drones, gun and rocket attack drones, damage control and repair suite, and of course your tagger drones so you can spray the battlefield with your sponsor’s logo.”

“All green tips and point detonators, I’m guessing.” Zombie shook his head. “Nothing sexy. Don’t suppose I could get any loitering munitions in that package?”

“Sorry, Steve seemed pretty clear on the minimalist load out.” Goofy Foot’s watch capped head popped over the edge of scaffold. “But I did manage to fix your velocity and acceleration issue when I installed the new servo motors.”

“What issue?” Zombie sat up straight.

“The way they were wired in all weird.” Goofy ducked back to his work. “You were losing a fraction of a second on your reaction time. Whoever you had install those should have been embarrassed. I got it squared away, though.”

Zombie gritted his teeth. In combat, death and life were a matter of seconds and inches. Winning and losing in the Derby remained much the same. Whoever had tampered with his servos had known that, too. This whole thing felt like a long con. He’d been set up to fall and then coerced into propping up Terco to line the pockets of the bookmakers. As soon as he took their money, he never stood a chance.

“Bhosdike!” Zombie’s jaw clenched so tight he nearly chipped his teeth.

“What’s that?” Goofy Foot’s muffled voice came up from behind the mech.

“How much paint those taggers carry?” Sponsors loved to have their logos spread all over a live stream mech battle. Sometimes pilots even got advertising bonuses just laying down extra tags across the blasted concrete of the Zone.

“Oh, I’d say about a gallon a piece.”

“Think you can bolt on a few more for me?” Zombie rubbed his fingers together. “Need that advert bonus.”

“Sure thing.”

“Say, Goof.” Zombie leaned back on his elbows trying to relax. “Whatever happened with that idea you had with the drones?”

“The decoy expendables?” Goofy Foot’s head popped back up over the rim of the scaffolding.

“Yeah, those.” Zombie leaned forward. He might not be able to get anything overtly offensive out of his ‘sponsors,’ but there was more than one way to clone a sheep.

“Dirty Steve said it’s stupid and no one would ever use them in the Derby.” Goofy’s shoulders slumped.

“Tell me how they work.” Inspiration sparked an avalanche of ideas in Zombie’s mind. “And what else can we rig those taggers to spray besides paint?”

If everyone didn’t know just how good a mech jockey Zombie could be, they were about to find out. He’d send an ascending star right up their tail pipes.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and children of all ages! The Zona Pugna, in conjunction with Pallascore Entertainment Group, proudly brings to you…the finest in mecha combat sports today!” Zombie hated that they piped in the sportscaster commentary to the pilots. He tried to ignore their prattling as much as he could. “It’s…the Calamity Derrrbyyy!”

Zombie went over his pilot’s checklist one more time: haptics all responding well–weapons loaded and functioning–drones primed and ready for launch.

“Each of our combatant’s conflict resolution programming provided by Del Vista Tech, the finest in confrontation software!”

Earlier that morning he and Goofy Foot inspected the Amazon Black to ensure the servos and other systems hadn’t been tampered with or ‘adjusted’ in any way. Goofy even uploaded the newest version of Del Vista Tech’s cutting-edge conflict resolution program, Vista Combat! Imagine Zombie’s surprise when his threat assessment and targeting systems didn’t seem as buggy as before. He had no idea if any of the other jockeys actually used it, but it functioned better than the corrupted programming he’d been unwittingly using.

“We’ve got eleven wrecking machines stalking the Zone in tonight’s demolition event!”

Holo-screen displays were responding to touch input. Hull-mounted electro-optical high definition viewing systems and targeting sensors were online. All of Amazon Black’s systems were a go.

“Who will make it to the coveted Final Four? The only way to find out is to stay tuned!”

Zombie scoffed at the announcer. One of the four would be a sure bet, or they’d probably find the pilot of the Amazon Black floating in a recycling vat somewhere.

Zombie looked out his reinforced front viewport as advertising messages from the program’s various sponsors streamed into the Black’s cockpit. A wasteland of long-abandoned cityscape littered with broken concrete and derelict spacecraft met his eyes. He willed himself to relax into his haptics and stand by for the Calamity Derby to kick off.

“Just a reminder that our opening siren is sponsored, in part, by the Al Hazred Group–investing in strange aeons.”

Finally, the yawling wail of the opening siren signaled the start of the Calamity Derby. Amazon Black stomped out its starting block, moving with an eager purpose.

Thoomp! Thoomp! Thoomp! Zombie launched three multi-rotor recon drones. He would have to find and fix Monster X’s position if he wanted to hold up his end of the deal. Telemetry data and full motion video scrolled across one of his holo-screens as the drones fanned out in a standard surveillance pattern.

Thoomp! Thoomp! Gun and rocket-armed combat drones deployed, quickly followed by a few single-rotor paint drones to start tagging derelict buildings. He could at least use the extra drones to screen the Black as the Derby wore on. Thoomp!

“Looks like the Amazon Black is making a bee line for Monster X. Could Zombie be looking for some early payback after the last Derby’s utter beatdown?” If the announcers were actually anywhere near the battle zone, Zombie would have happily expended his entire compliment of rockets into their broadcast booth. “He’s not the only one, though. Looks like Gun Betty and El Gallo aim to take the upstart Terco down a notch as well!”

Monster X appeared to be taking cover in the wreckage of an old apartment building. Zombie drew the Black up short, allowing the other two to approach Monster X’s position. Supporting gun drones from the other mechs exchanged fire overhead. A spike missile detonated one of Monster’s drones into a hail of scorched components.

El Gallo fired its autoloading recoilless rifles down the street into the building Monster hid in. Wall-buster rounds wreaked havoc on the already fractured complex. Bricks and debris rained into the streets in a cloud of dust as the building shook under the thunderous fire.

Zombie targeted El Gallo’s recon assets. The Black’s logo-tagging drones innocently zoomed up and laid a coat of paint across their optics. Generally, the Derby paint drones were ignored by pilots in favor of more valuable targets. El Gallo’s optical telemetry along its right flank went blind. Amazon Black followed up with a rotary cannon burst, then hauled ass.

“Well, that’s certainly a different approach! But I’m afraid Amazon Black is going to regret playing games with El Gallo like that!” Replays of the action looped in minimized windows on Zombie’s screens.

El Gallo turned as 20-millimeter rounds scored its right side in a hail of impacts. The recoilless rifles boomed angrily, but missed the moving Black. El Gallo settled in to get a fix on its annoying attacker.

Amazon Black’s innocuous paint drones sidled up to El Gallo and laid down a burst of spray all over its weapons systems. Only this drone’s paint canisters had been replaced with an industrial adhesive foam. The polyurethane quickly rose filling the gaps in the irregular surfaces of El Gallo’s recoilless rifles causing them to malfunction.

“These are certainly tactics we’ve never seen before on the Calamity Derby! Let’s see how well this more passive strategy is going to work out for the Amazon Black.”

El Gallo’s offensive drones launched a salvo of spike missiles. Amazon Black fired off its countermeasures and continued to move. Missiles detonated all around the Black as bursts of chaff disrupted their guidance systems. The fleeing mech disappeared behind a cloud of dust and debris.

The missile platforms broke apart under a storm of fire as Zombie targeted them with his own gun drones. Vista Combat! launch warnings lit up his panels. Monster X had engaged its rocket pods!

From out of the smoky haze of the wrecked apartment complex, two penetrator warheads slammed into the rear of El Gallo. The mech seemed to arch its back in a mechanical spasm, then crashed to the deck face first.

“Oooh! Monster X with the first kill of the night with a terrific flank shot! And Amazon Black is still in this one! What an exciting opening round!”

Monster X emerged from the complex firing its 30-millimeter cannon as it moved across the broken roadway. Brrrrrttt! Rounds pranged loudly off Gun Betty’s glacis. Betty’s drone suite unloaded on Monster in response.

Zombie’s new conflict programming detected an energy spike coming from Gun Betty as her main gun powered up. Whatever kind of weapon it turned out to be, it would certainly suck for all of them. He drove his mech in pursuit.

Servo motors whirred as Betty kicked down a wall chasing after Monster X. Overhead, drones swooped and attacked like dueling birds of prey. A curling smoke trail marked where a crippled gun drone spun wildly out of control.

Vista Combat! alerted him a fraction of a second before Dirty Deedz dropped a cluster munition on all of them.

Boom-boom! Boom! Boom! The alleyway erupted with detonations. Zombie’s screens lit up with warnings as the cockpit shook under the attack. Gun Betty and Monster X fired their ballistic mini guns point-blank. Concrete and rebar tumbled down around them. The Vista Combat! program indicated Monster X was about to get smeared by Gun Betty’s power weapon.

Amazon Black charged. She slammed into Monster X in what approximated a diving tackle for a mech, shoving it out of the line of fire.

Zorch! A jagged bolt of energy zig-zagged over the top of them. The crackling discharge crashed fully into Dirty Deedz’s sizzling hull. The electrical explosion sent a flashover arc into Amazon Black, hurling her to the other side of the fractured street. Zot! Zombie could smell the ozone in the cockpit. How in the world could he taste burnt hair?

“Dishoom! What an exchange! Gun Betty’s fulgor arc projector put an explanation point on that one! You can see their paint blistering!”

At the feet of Gun Betty, Zombie struggled to roll Amazon Black to her knees. To his right, Dirty Deedz thrashed through a pile of collapsed rubble. Where had Monster X gone?

He glanced through his front view port and clearly saw the articulated knee of Gun Betty move as she tried to position herself for a clear shot at one of them. Zombie raised the muzzle of Amazon Black’s rotary cannon right up to the flexing joint and leaned on the trigger. For a full six seconds, 20-millimeter rounds screamed hot. Brrrttt! The ruined knee of Gun Betty glowed red hot and buckled under its massive weight. Zombie heaved Black up onto the other mech and hammered its hull. Black’s three fingered claw rent mini guns from their mounts and pried off missile pods.

A Vista Combat! notification chimed on his console. The blinking icon indicated Gun Betty as combat ineffective.

“Amazon Black is awarded a mobility kill! She’s been struggling the last few Derbies, but the old girl put in some decent work that time!”

Zombie leaned on the battered Betty to push his mech back into a standing position. Thick dust still swirled about them. He quickly tried to process incoming telemetry data. The other two should still be right on top of them.

Dirty Deedz loomed from the cloud of debris leveling twin auto cannons at the Amazon Black. Through the haze the crackling power fist of Monster X smashed down on Dirty’s hull. The close combat weapon discharged its energy into the already overwhelmed operating systems of the mech. Dirty Deedz hissed, sparked, then came to a juddering, smoking halt.

Zombie took the opportunity to pilot the Amazon Black back around the wall and out of Monster X’s line of sight. Just because Zombie had been forced to look out for Terco didn’t mean Terco felt the desire to return the favor.

“Elsewhere in the Zona Pugna, Lunch Money is a smoldering wreck thanks to a timely rail gun shot from Bad Diplomacy, while Whiskey Business and Irn Bru continue to slug it out, and Boat Drinks shot the chain guns clean off a wounded Jaanavar. But jhakaas! The superior performance of Monster X and Amazon Black crippled three mechs straight away with some serious close combat action!”

Warning icons winked out on Zombie’s panels as Amazon Black’s damage control systems repaired what minor things they could. Fresh telemetry data streamed in from the surviving drones. Monster X still skulked nearby and with the quick elimination of four combat mechs, some of the other competitors were attempting a stealthier approach.

Whiskey Business and Irn Bru traded indirect rocket fire using their drones to maintain line of sight. Munitions arced lazily over abandoned buildings to come screaming down on their target a block away. Their gun drones dueled and jockeyed overhead.

Zombie gambled they were so focused on each other they wouldn’t detect his own attack. The Black’s drones flew along the rooftops then slashed through the swirling melee firing guns and rockets of their own. Enemy aerial platforms tumbled broken into the streets.

Irn Bru turned toward the approaching Amazon Black only to get sprayed with a combination of paint and adhesive foam from another small wave of drones. Sensors and optics blinded, Irn Bru fired its guns in all directions. Black launched a salvo of missiles. Direct hits punched ugly holes into the staggering Irn Bru. Entire panels hung loosely off its exposed frame.

Vista Combat! loudly informed Zombie Irn Bru had achieved a target lock on them. A missile launched from the back of the Bru like an accusing finger. Time to test out Goofy Foot’s experimental countermeasure.

Thoomp! Zombie deployed a new 40-millimeter drone. At the arc of its launch, rotor blades unfolded. The little fella zipped away into the path of incoming munition. Goofy Foot had rigged the device to employ deception jamming with the Black’s signature. This ideally tricked the terminal guidance system aboard the threat into thinking the decoy was the Amazon Black.

The missile spiraled away after the decoy, intercepting it and detonating high above the Zone. Amazon Black’s rotary cannon barked once, twice. Brrrttt! Brrrttt! Bursts of 20-millimeter green tips shredded the exposed innards of the Irn Bru. The enemy mech came to convulsive halt, immobile.

Vista Combat! kindly informed Zombie the Bru had been rendered ineffective.

“That’s a countermeasure we haven’t seen in the Zone before! Amazon Black with another kill on the board!”

Zombie squeezed the Black through a narrow alley and right into a full-on brawl.

Five mechs laid waste to the entire block, moving and shooting, targeting one another under a hail of gunfire and detonations. A missile shrieked by the Amazon Black impacting a nearby building. The entire façade spilled into the street in an avalanche of smoking wreckage.

Zombie sent his tag drones in low along the flank of Whiskey Business. The big mech opened fire with its smaller ballistic weapons shredding them as they came in. Whiskey had paid attention and didn’t want a new coat of paint and glue across its sensors. Zombie followed up with a missile salvo.

Vista Combat! displayed the relative combat effectiveness of the remaining combatants. Between taking damage and ammo expenditure, no one remained above sixty percent.

Boat Drinks fired a thermite munition, hitting Whiskey Business with a pyrotechnic composition of metal powders and oxides. The chemical reaction spat molten globules of Whiskey’s melting chassis in all directions. Staggering back, the stricken mech’s rockets detonated within their pods. Its combat effectiveness percentages plummeted to zero.

The molten state of the mech caused Whiskey Business to engage its pilot safety protocols. Zona Pugna rescue and fire suppression drones swarmed the fallen machine to cut out the pilot and remove him to safety. None of this caused so much as a pause in the action.

Monster X’s 30-millimeter cannon roared, stitching a line up the center of the Jaanavar. A rail gun shot from Bad Diplomacy rang just wide of the Monster. A full spread of rockets from Jaanavar rained evenly across the blistered hulls of both its rivals. Boat Drinks waded into the midst of them and Vista Combat! lit up Zombie’s panels with warnings.

A kinetic pulse of energy burst from a strange device mounted on Boat Drinks’ armored hull. The shockwave sent the rest of the mechs sprawling amongst the broken debris of the Zone. Amazon Black skidded into a sagging blockhouse in an upright sitting position.

“Looks like our jockeys brought all kinds of new tricks with them today! Amazing combat action!”

Boat Drinks stomped up to a prone Monster X and raised the thermite cannon. Zombie’s stomach lurched. He activated every rocket Black had left, emptying her pods at Boat Drinks. A wall of munitions detonated against the tough armor of Boat Drinks, spinning it in place. The big mech staggered to keep its footing.

Amazon Black rose awkwardly. Bad Diplomacy struggled within the debris. Monster X leaned against a crumbling wall getting back to its feet. Boat Drinks smashed a massive, armored foot down on the prone Jaanavar. The large steel foot stomped into Jaanvar’s chassis twice, three times more. Jaanavar’s stats dwindled to zero.

“And with another spectacular close combat kill, we’ve entered into the Final Four! Boat Drinks! Bad Diplomacy! Monster X! And who’d a-thunk it…the one and only Amazon Black! Our Final Four segment is sponsored by Yum-Yum Utopian Foods, purveyors of fine fungi-derived meat substitutes! Try their new beefsteak fungus! Always have a full tum-tum…with Yum-Yum!”

With that, Zombie had fulfilled his contract, and the gloves were now off. He aimed Black’s rotary cannon squarely onto Monster X. Yet the reticle danced around the target and refused to lock on. It slid right off every time Zombie centered it. All the near misses from tonight’s Derby replayed in his mind. Monster had only been damaged by cluster munitions with a wide spread or shrapnel from close detonations. Terco must have installed some kind of device that interfered with opposing targeting systems! Zombie spat a litany of profane curses.

Amazon Black moved. This short lull in the action would be coming to a crashing close. A quick inventory showed Black only had two tagger drones remaining, one loaded with paint and the other adhesive. A single reconnaissance drone also remained active. All offensive capable gun and rocket drones were gone. Missiles completely dry, she had 10,000 rounds remaining in the rotary cannon. Two expendable decoys lingered in their launchers.

Vista Combat! noted the heavy weapons on Bad Diplomacy and Boat Drinks were spooling up. Monster X’s canon opened fire. Everyone engaged with close range ballistic weapons. Missile pods erupted, sending payloads into the sky.

Zombie snuck his last adhesive spraying drone into this maelstrom. It zipped between the shifting legs of Bad Diplomacy to hover directing in front of Monster X. Zombie placed the aiming reticle of his rotary cannon over the drone and opened fire. Brrrttt! A burst of 20-millimeter rounds punched through the drone hitting the mech directly behind it. Adhesive foam splashed across the lower half of its torso. The hits registered on Vista Combat! It worked!

Target lock warnings blared. A salvo of missiles had locked on to the Black. Zombie kept the machine moving through the cover of wrecked buildings and deployed a decoy. Thoomp!

Suddenly inspired, Zombie directed the decoy expendable directly into the midst of the three battling mechs. The terminal guidance systems in the missiles sent them screaming hot on the drone’s tail.

The decoy hit the side of Boat Drinks’ hull and shattered. Two of the pursuing missiles detonated directly on the thermite cannon, rendering it inoperable. A third missile overshot and exploded between Monster X’s feet. Zombie couldn’t have predicted a better outcome.

Warnings flared on his screens. Bad Diplomacy’s rail gun fired. The steel projectile rent through Amazon Black’s shoulder servos. The articulated left arm and power gauntlet somersaulted into the air. Black’s legs kept pumping. Incoming fire from Monster X pranged off her armor and chewed 30-millimeter divots into pavement behind her.

Remembering the fate of Whiskey Business, Zombie deployed the last decoy expendable. Thoomp! He didn’t activate it immediately, but sent it on its way.

Amazon Black’s combat effectiveness plummeted. Damage control systems could no longer compensate. Zombie pressed the pilot distress button on his console. It never crossed his mind he would ever have used it before today.

“What’s this? Things must be worse than we thought for the Amazon Black and her pilot Zombie!”

Zona Pugna medical rescue drones deployed to cut the distressed pilot from his machine. They appeared through the smoke, coming over the rooftops of the derelict city.

“What an unfortunate way to bow out of the Final Four!”

Zombie guided the expendable drone directly at the glob of adhesive still spreading across Monster X’s torso. It stuck fast into the gooey foam. Zombie activated the decoy signature.

The medical rescue drones deviated and turned toward Monster X. Plasma torches lit up as they landed along the mech pilot housing and began cutting through the armor. Monster X flailed helplessly at them, managing to smash one against its body.

“What in the world is going on here? We thought Monster X was still in the fight!”

Bad Diplomacy and Boat Drinks paused, seeming as shocked as everyone else.

A large cut away portion of Monster’s hull fell away, and an aerial rescue vehicle descended. The swarm of hovering drones forcibly removed Terco from the cockpit and placed him screaming into the rescue vehicle. Monster X fell to its back, the edges of the gaping hole in its front still glowing from the plasma torches.

“This is unprecedented! What in the wide, wide world of sports is going on?”

Zombie laughed within the cockpit of the Amazon Black and deactivated the pilot distress system. Fresh out of drones and fresh out of tricks, Black stood missing an arm with only 4,000 rounds left in the gun. He centered the reticle on Bad Diplomacy.

“It’s the kind of night where anything can happen!”

The odds remained long Zombie would come out on top this time around, but he sure as hell refused to come in last.

6

SAME DANCE, NEW PARTNER

J. M. ANJEWIERDEN

Lieutenant Candace Hadassah was on duty when the unfamiliar starship dropped out of subspace above her isolated, quiet world because, of course, she was.

Where else would she be, if not stuck in the most boring spot in the tiny colony?

To start with, there were only two officers within some dozens of light years. The second was Lieutenant Colonel Grace Broz–decorated ridder pilot and all-around curmudgeon–who loved to remind everyone that she was retired. Given the state of the galaxy, however, that meant filling an important billet, but away from the front lines.

Still, that she’d lived to retirement age was impressive enough that even Hadassah was willing to cut her a lot of slack.

The ridders were the pinnacle of modern combat, sleek war machines with the form of a woman, but powered by stolen alien technology, the zero-point ‘zip’ reactor. That feminine form was vital, as their pilots physically entwined their nervous systems with their machines, controlling them like oversized versions of their own bodies.

The various militaries had their own models, but the Armored Neural Link Units Broz and Hadassah piloted–nicknamed ‘angels’ by the somewhat unimaginative grunts of the Marine Corps–were twenty meters tall and lovingly detailed, even beautiful.

After ten hours staring at empty monitoring screens, Hadassah would gladly have volunteered for some combat patrols, despite the risks involved.

An entire world defended by a rookie so new even she admitted she squeaked, and a veteran whose best days were decades in the past…

Two pilots for the two ridders…worrying, but also frustrating.

That they’d be easily overwhelmed if they were attacked was the obvious source of the worry. The frustration, well, that came from the logical reason why that was unlikely. Their new agricolony was on the opposite side of the spiral from the alien’s dwindling territory, and the days when humanity had gone from loss to loss against their implacable foe had ended before Candace had even been born.

Still thinking about her unenviable position on this absolute backwater, she lazily watched the ship settle into orbit above them through the various sensors sending information to the small room, laughably called a combat information center.

It was slow going, not because the spaceship was slow, as humans counted things, but because space was simply that big.

They didn’t try to contact her, and she didn’t try to contact them. There was little point when the angle for a communication laser was so bad.

The colonel’s personal mechanic walked in a few minutes later, sparing Hadassah from the unfamiliar boredom of waiting on a ship, rather than waiting on nothing at all.

Private Basil Stag didn’t look particularly fierce–that was out of the question for a two-foot-tall white fluffy bunny in mechanic’s overalls–but Hadassah knew he had seen almost as much combat as Broz, and more than once defended the colonel when aliens had breached the cockpit of her angel.

She also knew that, for all she and Broz were officially in charge of the planet’s meager military defense force, it was Stag and the rest of his people, the warren of genetically engineered rabbits that filled every position other than ‘pilot,’ that really ran things.

“I don’t see any scheduled arrivals on the chart, ma’am. Has the courier sent any messages yet?”

“Not yet,” she said, stifling a yawn, despite it only being mid-afternoon, then followed it up with a shake of her head. “They won’t be overhead for another,” she paused to double check, “ten minutes.”

Stag’s nose twitched as he sneezed. Hadassah knew that, for the rabbits, a sneeze was an important part of their body language, but damned if she knew what it meant. Annoyance? Amusement? Broz would have known, she was sure, but Broz wasn’t there.

“Those fancy alien reactors we put in everything now sure are nice, but I miss not needing landlines or communications lasers for everything.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Hadassah pointed out, and not for the first time. This was an old gripe of his, but what did he want her to say? His definition of ‘new’ was slightly different from hers, given he was talking about technology that was older than she was, leaving her with old media as her sole window into a world where wireless signals were pervasive.

Personally, she thought having reactors that could be small enough to fit inside something like her angel, but still powerful enough to move the stupendous pile of steel, was well worth their effect on nearby wireless signals. Especially since one of the other ‘weird’ effects of the reactor, which literally drew power from another reality, was a coating of exotic particles on whatever it was installed in. This ‘film’ acted like an energy shield from the old sci-fi stories Broz loved sharing with her. It was a shield that could be pierced, but only by something sharp moving slow enough to not trigger the shield’s rebounding effect.

Why the reactors had those effects she didn’t know, but at least she was in good company there. No one knew the answer to that, at least not anyone human.

“What kind of ship is it, anyway? I hope it isn’t a cattle ship; if they want a bunch of cows now, before calving season, it will seriously impact our attempts to grow the herds over the next few years.”

Hadassah could only shrug.

“I’m not really trained on the sensor equipment, remember? I’m feeling pretty good about myself that I can tell it isn’t an alien ship, and tell how long it needs to get overhead.”

Stag grumbled again, but she could tell it was mostly for show. She had no idea how Broz felt–reclusive was hardly an adequate word to describe her–but Stag was bored in what was supposed to be his retirement as well, even with his ranch and family taking up his time. A chance to complain about her shortcomings as an officer while training her at the same time would be a welcome break in the monotony for both of them.

With a standing leap Stag jumped up onto the human-sized stool next to Hadassah’s, and then looked down at the various displays and controls.

She waited patiently for him to review the data before explaining it to her–what else was she going to do anyway–but after a few moments his customary scowl turned into a genuine frown, and his ears flattened back.

As rabbits’ ears were even more important in conveying their mood than their noses, not that she could usually read them either, that sign of worry was blatant enough even she had no trouble interpreting it.

“What is it?” she said, doing her level best to at least sound like the officer she was supposed to be, even if inside she was fighting against a wave of dread washing over her.

“I…it might be nothing,” Stag said, trailing off. “There could be any number of reasons they’d be here.”

“Who they? Not the aliens?”

“No,” he answered, his ears twitching again before he continued. “Sorry, ma’am. I’m a little confused, is all. The registry and name are painted on part of the ship we can’t see from here, but I recognize this class of ship. It is a wolf troop transport, designed for carrying troops, supplies, and even ridders.”

“A wolf transport? At a rabbit colony?” Now Hadassah was confused as well. Humanity and the various uplifted species of animals were united in their efforts against their common foe, easily achieved given they were all equally threatened by them. That said, there was more than a little unease, outright animosity even, between species like the rabbits or the horses and the carnivorous ones like the wolves or foxes.

Humans ended up everywhere, for a host of reasons, starting with the fact that they hadn’t succeeded in getting the ridder mind link to work for anyone besides human females. The government, however, had always been careful about giving the other various species plenty of space of their own. There was no reason not to, given how vast space was, but especially because a species who had been facing the very real possibility of extinction a few short decades earlier could ill-afford any internal conflicts.

Yet here it was.

I shouldn’t be too hasty. There are plenty of possible explanations. I also shouldn’t let Stag’s apprehension influence me. Wasn’t I just thinking about how the two groups don’t get along in general?

“Is it built to accommodate wolves only, or is there a human crew?”

“No humans on board,” Stag replied with a flick of his ears that she thought meant a negative response. Maybe. Context clues only got her so far, unfortunately. “Bit easier to give them their own ships; cuts down on the kinds of rations they need to stock up on.”

“I’ve never been on a ship without at least humans and rabbits on board. Horses too, for the larger ones,” Hadassah offered.

“We’re all either herbivores or omnivores,” Stag countered. “And if you think most of your rations have actual meat in them remind me to tell you later about this lovely bridge I have for sale.”

“Maybe they are here for the cows, then,” Hadassah said after a moment, ignoring the barb about her gullible nature.

Won’t do to let the enlisted man get a rise out of the officer. Her frown deepened a bit.

“Could be an emergency. Maybe they’re short on food.”

Stag sneezed, his soft nose wrinkling up.

“I didn’t say it was likely,” Hadassah added, feeling more than a little defensive. “There has to be some reason they’re out here in the boonies.”

“Yeah, well, we are the boonies, which means far, far away from the fighting. If they were low on food, they passed by a few thousand closer places to look for it.”

Stag closed his eyes for a moment.

“It might be useful, ma’am,” he said, not opening his eyes until he paused speaking, “for you to go get the colonel.”

She felt like arguing with him, but not because he was effectively if not explicitly giving her an order. No, she was unsure about leaving for two reasons–first, because it was her job to be on monitoring duty, not his, and second, that the equipment wasn’t designed with his people in mind.

Oh, it wasn’t like the brand-new virtual reality games and programs–those didn’t work with non-human physiology at all–but it was still awkward and cumbersome for someone of his size.

Then again, he’s already demonstrated he can use it better than I can, she thought, swallowing her pride with a small sigh and nod to Stag.

“I’ll get her as fast as I can. Do you want me to give her your normal complaints about her refusal to install a line into her home so we can communicate with her besides in person?”

Stag sneezed again. “Tempting, but no. It would be more important for the pair of you to get back here as soon as you can,” he said.

Even before she’d left the room, she could hear him pick up the receiver for the comm system.

In the interests of speed, Hadassah had taken her motorcycle to the outskirts of town where the colonel lived. She’d told Mrs. Stag–outside working on the garden–that it was urgent. Clearly, she’d believed Haddasah, as the colonel exited her home less than a minute later.

She wasn’t in uniform, not that Hadassah had expected her to be. Really, she’d have been annoyed if she had been, since that would have meant time wasted getting it on.

She had expected more than an oversized robe and slippers, however.

The great war hero, in all her glory, Hadassah thought, doing her best to keep her face passive. She hadn’t been able to help thinking it, but she knew it wasn’t kind or fair. She hoped she’d kept the flash of annoyance from showing, but if she had failed it wasn’t reflected in the colonel’s expression.

Not that the colonel’s expression varied much.

Bored indifference, bored annoyance, bored fatigue, and her personal favorite, bored disappointment.

Today it was a mix of indifference and fatigue, but her eyes were narrowed as she looked Hadassah over, a hint that made the young lieutenant wonder if she was paying more attention than she might otherwise appear.

“Report,” the colonel said simply, her voice quiet but firm.

“Unscheduled arrival. Private Stag says it is a wolf troop transport. Designation unknown.”

“And what do they have to say?”

“I don’t know, ma’am, they would have arrived overhead shortly after I arrived here.”

The colonel looked over at Mrs. Stag, who excused herself with a smile that struck Hadassah as more than a little forced.

Only when she was out of earshot did Broz speak, and then in the same quiet voice as before.

“Speed is called for.” She leaned to the side, looking past Hadassah. “That you didn’t walk was a good, but you should have considered the return trip.”

Before Hadassah could reply, the colonel had begun to move, carefully stepping around her and climbing on the motorcycle.

“Should I walk back, then?” Hadassah asked, focusing on the practical in an attempt to keep from laughing.

It was hard, given the absurdity of the scene before her, as the colonel meticulously gathered her robes around her, presumably to make sure the fabric didn’t catch on anything as she rode.

After a moment, not laughing became easier, as the colonel’s efforts had exposed a multitude of scars on her arms and legs. Some were long and thin, others gnarled and large, and a few were puckered messes–the remnants of bullet wounds.

“No. As I already said, speed is called for. Climb on. Do not squeeze my waist too tightly.” Broz removed her slippers, tucking them into the belt at her waist, before indicating again to the spot behind her on the vehicle.

Given a choice there were any number of things Hadassah would prefer to do over riding behind the colonel. There were any number of things she would rather do than ride behind the colonel, so attired. The list of things she’d rather do than ride behind the colonel, so attired, on the bare metal frame meant to hold packages, well, that was as close to infinite as she could comprehend.

What she wasn’t given, unfortunately, was a choice.

As she stumbled back into the Combat Information Center, far more rapidly than she had thought possible, Lt. Hadassah vowed to herself to never speak of the harrowing trip again, not even in the unlikely event the colonel herself brought it up.

It was honestly almost a relief that Private Stag rushed over to them almost before they’d finished entering the room, even if his expression told her he had nothing good to report.

“They’re trying to strong arm me into letting them land, while refusing most of my questions on the grounds that I’m not in charge,” he said without preamble. His ears flicked back towards the monitor, the display showing the ship almost directly above the satellite sending them its footage.

“Anything useful in what they did, and didn’t, say?” Broz asked.

“Not really, ma’am. On the one hand, they reiterated a lot that they were not going to talk with a private. On the other they kept repeating that they have urgent business and need to land at the main field ASAP.”

“Understood. On with you then. Get them both prepped and get someone else up here who knows the controls.”

Once the private had hopped to it, the colonel gestured at one of the chairs, slipping into the other herself.

“Can I ask what is going on?” Hadassah was used to not knowing the full story (what fresh lieutenant wasn’t?), but this was getting a bit tedious, even for an organization for whom “hurry up and wait,” was a way of life.

“Why not?” the colonel muttered. Waving at Hadassah to be quiet, she punched up the comm line with the transport overhead.

“Transport,” Broz said, pausing while looking over at another screen, tapping it as she found something, “WS-327, this is Colonel Broz, commanding officer of the forces assigned to defend Callao Colony. Your arrival is not scheduled. Furthermore, you have not transmitted your orders nor explained your presence here. Do so immediately.”

Perhaps twenty seconds went by before any reply came. Then another of the screens changed over to show a portion of a starship command deck, the layout familiar to Hadassah, but subtly different somehow. A few moments later she realized it was because the room was noticeably shorter than in the ships she’d been on, even with the smaller scale chairs and controls sized for wolves rather than humans taken into account.

“This is Captain Arnold. About time someone competent answered us. I must say that it is a bit rude to leave your video off. I much prefer to see who it is I’m talking to.”

“I’m afraid you caught us at a bad time,” the colonel answered with a smile the captain would not see. “We weren’t expecting you, after all.”

Hadassah had been around the colonel enough to recognize that the warmth in her tone was entirely false, but she hoped the captain wouldn’t notice. She still had no clue what was going on, but an inter-service pissing match would be tiring, at absolute best.

“Very well, Callao Actual. I am transmitting our orders, and clearance. We are here to secure emergency supplies for the war front, to the tune of six thousand head of cattle. We recognize you might not have that many butchered animals on hand ready for delivery, and we are prepared to take live animals to fill out the remainder of what is needed.”

“Receiving now,” Broz said, the fake sweetness of her voice increasing more than a little bit. “Hold one.”

Raising a hand to forestall any comments from Hadassah, the colonel worked the controls to shut off the transmission, double-checked her displays, and only then turned to her, lowering her hand.

“I know you haven’t liked being posted out here, but it looks like your luck has changed. A change for the better, or worse, well, that is a matter of perspective, but changed it has.”

“I am still entirely lost, ma’am. I know taking that much of our cattle will hurt the herds, but they really do need it for the war…”

Hadassah trailed off as Broz shook her head sharply.

“The war’s been over for a year, almost a year and a half, now.”

“What!”

“I’ll explain in a minute. All I’m doing right now is stalling for time, but I have to respond to him soon or they’ll get suspicious. A ship of their class won’t have much weaponry, but they could still attack from orbit in ways we couldn’t defend against or stop. For now, get yourself mentally prepared for battle.”

Turning back to the screens, the colonel reopened the comm line.

“I’m seeing it now, captain. It will take some time to get that much beef gathered, and you are correct, we don’t have nearly that much frozen on hand. I’m sending you the coordinates for a secondary landing field. It is still more than large enough for your vessel, but it is closer to both our warehouses and the larger ranches.”

“Understood. Thank you for your prompt compliance.” Captain Arnold smiled wide, the very human gesture hitting Hadassah quite differently as it exposed his very, very sharp teeth.

The screen went blank, then flashed back to a view of the starship’s belly.

“Colonel, I really need some answers.” Hadassah was trying to keep her voice level, but she wasn’t afraid to admit–to herself, anyway–that she was spooked. The tension in the air had washed over her like an electric current, and she felt deep down the need to fight, to flee, to do something.

“Okay, but I still need to be brief. You need to get down to the bay and get your angel ready to go. As best as military command can determine, we found and ‘neutralized’ the alien’s home world more than a year ago. They kept it quiet, however, because of the very real risk that they have colonies hidden out there, as a backup, not unlike ours in that regard. They don’t think the public could handle the whiplash of the joyful news that the threat is gone, only to find out it isn’t.”

“So, they keep up the pretense, while the fleets are meticulously scouting every system within reach of their home world. The only reason I know about this is because I’m the military commander for an entire colony world.”

“I still don’t understand, ma’am. The war is over, that’s a great thing, isn’t it?”

“It is…right up until they showed up,” Broz replied, pointing up at the ceiling. “There is no legitimate reason for a wolf ship to be here. No emergency, no military need. Now, I don’t blame you for being confused, there is so much you simply don’t know, in your position.

“Things like how restless the wolves have been. All the murmurs we’ve heard about their anger at how they’ve been treated. How they think the other species hate them because they’re carnivores. I didn’t put much stock in those rumors, but there they are.”

Hadassah thought through what the colonel could be implying.

“You think they’re going to attack us now because the alien threat is gone?”

“It does seem that way, doesn’t it?”

“But how can you be sure?”

“I’m not,” Broz conceded with a frown. “But I can’t risk this entire colony by not being ready, not when they have no other way of defending themselves other than the two of us. I’m not going to be hasty; I’m not going to do anything until I’m sure, but we are going to be ready.”

“All…all right, ma’am. What do we do, then?”

“We must be careful–not tip our hand. As soon as one of the privates gets here, we’re going to go down to the bay, get suited up and plugged in. I’ll tie my angel into the network via laser so I can talk with them, keep them thinking I’m still here. You are going to get ready to head out and circle around through the forest to the landing field I sent them to.”

Broz shook her head.

“For once those blasted dense forests are going to be useful, for the same reasons they’ve complicated our agricultural expansion. They’re tall enough to block anyone from seeing your approach from above and dense enough that they won’t see you approaching from the ground until you’re right on top of them.”

Broz frowned, rubbing her chin with one hand before continuing.

“Now this is critical, you aren’t to leave the bay until they’ve started landing, so they won’t see you cross the city and enter the forest…”

Lieutenant Hadassah had reached her position on the opposite side of the field from the city, and she ached to know something, anything about what was going on. With her reactor engaged, she couldn’t receive any signals, and there certainly wasn’t any way for someone in the city to get a laser on her through the stupendously dense canopy of Callao’s spectacular native forest.

With her mind connected to her angel she could sense so much more than she normally could–the temperature outside, a wider range of sounds than her human ear could perceive, even a wider angle of sight thanks to the machine’s cameras, yet none of them did her any good in that moment.

At least she could see the sky, which was fortunate, as that was the only way she’d be able to receive her orders–flares launched from the CIC, color coded based on the situation.

“You need to relax,” Private Stag’s voice ‘felt’ like it was inside her own head. This was, in a way, literally the case as he was seated at the small mechanic’s station in her angel’s cockpit, located inside the machine’s head–her head, given the machine was physically part of her at the moment.

“I know you can’t feel your heartbeat, or how clammy your skin is, but I can see it in your vital signs. The stress will do you no good and might even wear you out before anything happens. If anything happens.”

“I wish Private Rose was here,” Hadassah said, rather than addressing his concern directly. She had to speak a little slowly, it was hard getting the words out right when she couldn’t feel her real body or hear the words coming out of her mouth. “She always keeps me informed without lecturing me. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were here to babysit me.”

“Well, you don’t know better because I am,” Stag promptly responded. “Colonel’s orders. She wants me here in case things do go south. Rose is good, but she has no real experience monitoring your systems in combat.”

Loathe as she was to admit it, he had a point there.

She certainly couldn’t monitor anything. For good or ill, the angel was effectively her body, and she could no more monitor her own reactor than she could her digestive system, or heart.

That limitation affected her combat style in other ways, as well. Despite the variety of ridder models in use, all of them had one thing in common for their weapon systems: they treated the ridder as an oversized infantrywoman, rather than an oddly shaped vehicle.

In the case of the angels, that meant a knife on her right hip, a gigantic rifle slung on her back, and a single revolver like weapon in a holster on her left hip carrying six rockets.

The few times Hadassah had gotten the colonel to talk about her battles, she’d talked fondly of angel-sized grenades, but they didn’t have any of those on Callao.

No grenades–hell–they’d only had the one revolver in the armory, with no reloads. They’d at least had plenty of the explosive bullets for their rifles.

There was one integrated weapon system–a firearm in her left arm with a short barrel poking out slightly from her palm. Just about the only commands she could send the machine, other than movement, was a particular motion of her left arm and fingers to fire the rifle and another series of movements that triggered the neural link to disconnect.

Not that she’d be using that firearm in the battle to come; there hadn’t been time to get the magazine loaded.

As they waited, motionless, Hadassah swore she could feel an itch on her back, which was of course impossible.

She was sure it was all in her head, but she also couldn’t ignore it.

The last order the colonel had given her was to not disconnect the neural link when she got in position, because it would take too long to reengage.

She’d wanted to protest because of what that could mean, but she knew the colonel had a point.

The neural link technology had been stolen from their alien foe, the same as the zip reactors. Without that link, a ridder agile enough to even stand a chance against the aliens’ imposing and unsettling war machines simply wasn’t possible, but there were still side effects.

Use it too often, or for too long in a single stretch, and it would deaden the pilot’s sense of touch. Gradual improvements had been made to lessen this problem, and were still being made, but they weren’t any closer to eliminating it entirely.

Nor were they any closer to figuring out why the link worked far better with a typical woman’s brain chemistry than it did a man’s.

That was the real reason why she cut the colonel so much slack, why she put up with so much work being dumped on her: the colonel’s neural degradation had progressed to the point that even moving around was dangerous, that she might bump into something and injure herself…and not even notice.

“What are the odds, you think?” Hadassah asked the private. “Are they really here to attack?”

For an interminable moment, he said nothing. Then she could hear a hiss as he sucked in a breath.

“I’d say about one hundred percent,” he said with a groan. “Look up.”

Rising from the city, the light bright and clear, despite it being only a little past midday, was a flare.

Red.

Red for blood, danger, and this time, for war.

“Remember the plan, LT,” Stag said as Hadassah got herself moving, pushing through–or over–the trees as she crossed the last few hundred meters of forest between her and her target. “Prioritize. Ship first: don’t let them get close enough to climb on. Don’t go full-auto; fire in short bursts.”

“Got it.” Five minutes before, she would have been annoyed by how basic his advice was, how obvious. That was five minutes ago. Now she was facing actual combat, combat against creatures far more like her than the enemy she’d expected to face.

With that plan in mind, she undid the thick strap holding the revolver in its holster, but left it in. The colonel had talked about her luck changing, but with her luck she’d probably bend the barrel if she tried holding it while still moving through the thick forest.

With the 180-degree view her metallic body afforded her, Hadassah was able to take in the situation on the landing field quickly as she crashed through the last layer of trees.

There was the troop transport with its massive cargo bay open, but facing away from her. There were wolf troops milling about, all of them obviously armed.

There was something large moving in front of the cargo bay, but whatever it was probably couldn’t target her if she couldn’t target it, so she stuck to the plan.

Her first two rockets plowed into the engine block of the transport side by side. The satisfyingly large explosion reached a few of the closest wolves.

Hadassah felt certain she’d have felt sick if she’d been feeling her biological body at all, but she pushed that aside. There would be time for that later.

She did feel dismayed as the smoke cleared to show the ship had taken no damage at all.

“Their reactor is still online; you’ll have to close in to knife range,” Stag advised her. “Quick–before they get off the ground.”

Hadassah’s only response was to grunt.

Well, if the rockets won’t do any good against the ship, might as well use them where they will, she thought, shifting her aim to the left side of the field, firing the remaining four rockets as she fanned it over to the right, targeting the largest clusters of soldiers.

Tossing aside the empty weapon with her left hand even as she reached for her knife with her right, she dashed forward, focused on the exterior hatches to the side of the engines; maintenance points that should have vital linkages and machinery surrounding them.

I don’t need to destroy the ship, not right now. Disabling it is more than enough.

She slowed only once she was within a few paces, aiming carefully as she thrust the three-meter-long blade into the seam where the hatch met the outer hull.

The zip field resisted for the barest moment, the slight flash of light around the impact point visible only with her mechanical eyes, but then it parted, and the knife dug deep.

Before she could work the knife around, seeking something important, there was a flash of movement at the extreme edge of her vision. She had scarcely started to turn when a hand landed on her shoulder, every bit as large as hers–exactly as large, in fact.

This surprise newcomer wrenched her around, throwing Hadassah from her feet entirely, the knife left embedded in the skin of the vessel.

Looking up at her assailant, Hadassah was momentarily immobilized by the sight before her.

It was an angel, or rather, it had been an angel. The entire head had been removed, replaced with a crude looking wolf head, far larger than the feminine one it had replaced.

Much of the body and most of the head had been painted red, except for the cartoonishly large teeth etched into the wolf’s muzzle. Those were bone white.

The mockery moved again, jerking forward, reaching for her.

Gone were the graceful, lifelike movements of every ridder she’d ever seen, replaced by something that would be much more at home in a zombie story, or perhaps a grotesque puppet theater.

“Lieutenant, move!” Stag yelled in her ‘ear,’ and reflexes drilled into her during training kicked in.

Rolling to the side, she avoided the grasping hands and lashed out at a pair of wolves who were getting far too close for comfort.

Her sense of touch was different when her skin was metal, but the sensation of the wolf squishing under her hand as she smashed him flat was something she felt sure would haunt her dreams for years to come.

“They must have replaced the control systems, piloting it manually,” Stag said, sounding both appalled and impressed. “The larger head is probably to fit the multiple pilots that would still require.”

She was back on her feet before the enemy had even reached her–its–knees, giving more credence to the private’s guess.

She could reach for her rifle, but against an opponent with an intact zip reactor knocking it around was the best she could hope for. Useful, to get it prone or at least vulnerable as she closed the distance, but she was already in knife range.

Now she just needed a knife.

Kicking another wolf who was trying to get behind her, she ran back up to the back of the ship, grabbing the handle and pulling, one foot braced against the ship for added leverage.

She’d struck harder than she’d realized–it was stuck.

Her foe rammed into her, looking like something out of the football games her father enjoyed, and down they both went again.

Unlike her, it had a knife in hand, and it was only sheer luck that the first stab glanced off her zip field, the blow still piercing enough to scratch a deep line along her metal breast.

Grabbing the wrist holding the blade, she struggled to keep it restrained. Her free right hand grasped about for something, anything, to target.

The machine’s leering wolf grin was inches from her ‘face’–the light was glinting on its painted fangs.

Wait, that’s it. This is a hack job, a field modification. Where it connects to the neck has to be a weak point.

Reaching again, this time with a purpose, she got her right hand around its throat, feeling for the point where the smooth metal of the mutilated angel body gave way to the rough welds and plating of the neck.

Finding it, she dug her fingers in, shifting about a bit on the ground to get a better grip.

The pilot, or pilots, could clearly tell what she was doing, and they redoubled their efforts to get the knife hand free.

She could feel the sensation akin to pain that was the angel warning her of a breach in her skin–the knife was digging into her arm now. No doubt they were trying to sever the metal muscles and cables that controlled the movement in her hand.

With an (admittedly unnecessary) scream, she wrenched the monstrosity’s neck to the side, breaking it with an audible shriek of tearing metal as the desecrated angel went immediately limp on top of her.

Shoving it to the side, Hadassah looked around for more targets, more enemies.

There were no more ridders in evidence, and even the remaining infantry had fled, but she could tell most had fled into the forest, rather than the ship, from the shaking bushes at the edge of the field.

“They’ll be a problem later, but that will have to be later,” she said, wondering if her voice sounded as shaky as she felt.

“Finish the job, and let’s get back to the city. They must have sent more the colonel’s way.”

Once she had torn the wolf cockpit the rest of the way off, it was a simple matter to crush the crude mockery under her foot. That done, she kicked it away from her, sending the crumpled metal bouncing toward the bushes.

Working her knife free after a minute of wiggling it back and forth, Hadassah dug her fingers into the hole she’d created and pried open the access hatch, tearing at everything she could find.

Just to be thorough, she fired several long bursts of explosive rounds into the torn-open hatch, then repeated the sabotage on three other spots near the engines.

“I’m sure the engineers will complain about fixing all that, but at least we have our own starship at the end, and no escaping wolves to worry about in the meantime,” Stag commented, quietly.

It wasn’t a long jog back to the city, but it felt so much longer than normal, even with the lengthy strides of her angel body.

She’d expected to hear the battle before seeing it, but it was eerily silent as she approached. Not far from the town she saw the first evidence of fighting, mostly small pockmarks dug by explosive rounds. A bit farther on a few craters joined the marks of bullets, about the right size for her revolver rockets, though she knew the colonel hadn’t had any of those.

Then she cleared the last curve of the forest, the main thoroughfare leading from the city to the landing field coming fully into view.

The destruction was…awesome, in its most primal meaning.

“Five of them,” Stag muttered, the despair in his voice mirroring how Hadassah felt.

Slumped over against a building, one arm frozen reaching up for the heavens, was the colonel, her silver and red angel streaked with black scorch marks, slashed in a dozen places by knifes, with one left buried through the intricately molded eye of her face, at a glance obviously deeply enough to have breached the cockpit.

There was no movement around any of them, and from the angle the knife had entered…she knew. She knew the colonel was dead.

Broz was surrounded by the wrecks of five more angels that had been mutilated in the same fashion as the one Hadassah had fought.

Two of them had limbs torn off entirely, and one discarded arm looked like it had been used as a club at some point after removal.

The fifth…the fifth had the colonel’s dagger driven straight into the hollow between its breasts, straight into the zip reactor.

“Miracle she didn’t detonate the reactor on the last one,” Stag whispered. She couldn’t see him, of course, but she could hear the pain in his voice. “Would have destroyed everything nearby. Then again, maybe that was what she was going for.”

“How did she manage it? Fight all five, with nothing more than a rifle and blade?”

“She is–was–the colonel,” was Stag’s only reply.

Not much of an explanation, but also the perfect one.

There were not any wolf infantrymen in evidence, but she did see a few bodies of wolf pilots, slumped halfway out of escape hatches, or fallen to the ground below.

Looking over at the nearby buildings, she caught the glint of sunlight off a scope.

Approaching, slowly, she was greeted by a dozen rabbits, with a dozen more not moving from their positions monitoring the surroundings.

At the front of them was Rose, but how? She should have been in the cockpit with the colonel.

“I think she realized,” Stag said, choking on the words. “Her last dance. She didn’t want me to be there, or to take anyone else with her. Her final gift to us.”

“Her war is over,” Hadassah said, feeling more than a little choked up herself. “Hers is over, but ours has just begun. It won’t just be the wolves who escaped into the forest, coming in to steal our cattle. There will be more ships, more blood. If they attacked here, a complete backwater, they had to have attacked almost everywhere.”

“An enemy who knows us, almost as well as we know ourselves, with the element of surprise,” Stag muttered. “I’d rather fight the aliens.”

“So would I. But we’ll beat them, in the end.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“It is what the colonel would have expected of us.”

END

7

THE MISFORTUNE OF PIRATES

BY JAMES YOUNG

OPPORTUNITIES

Eurasian Partition Defense Vessel (EPDV) Vesper’s Lament

Planet Argos Orbit

2300 Standard Spacefarer’s Time (SST)

Eurasian Partition

21 June 3052

Two years of ‘species harmony’ and the ‘end of Humanity’s intraspecies squabbling’ sure did go fast, Lisa Phelps thought, absentmindedly rubbing the necklace she wore over her jet-black tunic, once again proving all those ancient era holovids had it dead wrong ’bout aliens being an immediately unifying force.

Eighteen meters beneath her perch in the Vesper’s junior officer’s wardroom, a dozen technicians were putting the final touches on sealing Lisa’s Grendel-class mecha into a standard “Class 200” shipping container. So named because it was capable of carrying 200 metric tons of goods stored either in their own smaller containers as loose items, or, in extreme cases, a solitary block, the Class 200 was often given as much credit for human expansion as the Lucas drive. Had the Vesper’s Lament actually still been the bulk carrier she had started life as, the hold would be filled to the brim with trade goods, agricultural foodstuffs, and the various other technological marvels shipped from more advanced Confederation worlds to outer planets such as Argos. These would have been dropped from low planetary orbit as ordered from the various communities on the ground, facilitating the world’s gradual improvement until it was capable of serving as a future springboard for more colonization.

Instead of feeding life, the Vesper’s Lament new role was to take it. Saved from a breaker’s yard by an enterprising Eurasian Partition Defense Force (EPDF) acquisition officer, the vessel had been stripped to her bare bones and recommissioned in secret as a “Q-ship.” Although Humanity’s bloody first contact with aliens and the subsequent passage of the Intersector Pardon Act briefly halted the tripartite scourges of piracy, homicidal lizards and their murderous ursine overlords, neither response cured foundational social problems overnight. As such, the Vesper’s Lament was intended to permanently cure certain individual’s propensity to resort to brigandage, rape, and mayhem in order to meet their needs. Between the strengthening of her inner hull, provision for internal subdivision, an offensive battery of railguns and missile launchers rivaling most sector defensive cruisers, and a battalion of armored infantry, the Vesper’s Lament would ostensibly prove a nasty surprise to any pirates who crossed her path.

“Excuse me, but are you Ms. Phelps?” a soft soprano voice asked from behind Lisa. Turning, Lisa found herself facing a short, squat woman wearing the dark mottled camouflage of the Eurasian Partition Defense Force. The two silver pips of a leftenant adorned the raven-haired officer’s collar, and her bright blue eyes held Lisa’s in a steady gaze.

Well, you certainly seem like you should be down in a hole mining for gold and dodging dragons, Lisa thought. As with most Spartans, a lifetime of hand-to-hand training had taught her to size up an opponent quickly. Of course, odds are apparently about even whether you’d need an actual hammer to break rock.

“Yes, I am,” Lisa replied, extending her hand. “Senior Contractor for Ocelot Industries, Leftenant–?”

“Leftenant Abigail McPherson, 1st platoon leader, Destroyer Company,” the other woman introduced herself, shocking Lisa by grasping her forearm in the traditional Spartan fashion. “Welcome aboard the Vesper.”

“Thank you,” Lisa replied. “Sorry we’re late. There were some issues with that garbage scow’s captain.”

McPherson raised an eyebrow at that, with concern flitting briefly across her face.

Probably could have worded that better, but I’m tired, Lisa thought. The Monkey King had been a perfectly serviceable fast transport, if a bit dingy and with poor accommodations. Lisa had the feeling her curtness towards the vessel’s master had delayed their transit by roughly eight hours. While still within the tolerances of the contract between Ocelot and the independent vessel, Lisa had made sure her contingent of four Grendels had kept their reactors hot, weapons loaded, and at least a quarter of their small staff alert at all times.

“Nothing serious,” Lisa said, gesturing down towards the hold. “He just didn’t like me reminding him that the terms of my non-disclosure agreement and his contract were quite clear.”

“I imagine most people aren’t used to armed contractors in Eurasian space,” McPherson replied, moving to look out the window into the hold. “Especially Spartans.”

I would say that we’re humans just like anyone else, but we both know that’s not true.

“You would think the shock wears off after fifteen years,” Lisa replied, watching McPherson out of the corner of her eye. The Eurasian Leftenant snorted at that.

“I think Spartans often forget that you were expecting us,” McPherson stated, briefly turning sideways to lock eyes with Lisa. “We were not, in any way, expecting you. Think about how shocked you were to find out that there are no-kidding aliens now. That was us when you guys first showed up and started blasting people out of space.”

Technically the Confederation trespassed into Spartan space first, but that’s not a fruitful argument, Lisa thought, keeping her face passive.

“Speaking of blasting people out of space, I’m told that the plan is to put my platoon into three of those containers along with all four of your mecha,” McPherson said, gesturing to where the technicians were finally finishing sealing up Lisa’s mount. “The only thing I know about your Grendel is that it was the ‘runner up’ during the Fleet’s initial mecha selection trials. That’s only because my aunt works acquisitions and I saw her for High Feast six months ago.”

Wait a second, Lisa thought, whipping her head around. McPherson turned at the sudden movement.

“I take it you know my aunt?” McPherson said, raising an eyebrow.

Lisa let the question hang in the air for a moment. One disadvantage of being a Spartan contractor in the rest of the Confederation was just how different societal norms were. In the Diaspora, such a question would have been answered bluntly, if not profanely.

Know her? No. I believe that she’s a vindictive bitch who intentionally gave Ocelot “incorrect” key performance parameters due to our company embracing former Spartan military personnel with open arms over the last decade.

“Not personally, no,” Lisa replied aloud. “However, you might say that she’s responsible for much of the Grendel’s development versus the Kaiju-class that the Fleet eventually adopted.”

“Oh?” McPherson replied, eyes widening as she leaned backwards. “How so?”

That did not go as I expected, Lisa thought, turning back to the hold as the first breakaway pin was hammered into the cargo crate. There was a rumble as the bulkhead between holds five and four opened to reveal the second Grendel getting towed into the compartment.

“The Kaiju, based on the information provided, was developed as an all-around mecha,” Lisa said, gesturing towards the moving Grendel. “The specs given to Kawamori Industries indicated that the mecha had to be equally capable of operating within gravitational fields as well as open space. The ones given to Ocelot, on the other hand, indicated that the system’s primary regime would be the atmosphere with primary emphasis on ground warfare.”

“Ah,” McPherson said. “That explains why it has so much more armor and the stout stature.”

“Exactly,” Lisa replied, her expression pained. “Looks like an ancient Terran bodybuilder in ‘golem’ mode, like a discus cut in half in ‘fighter.’ Under the hood it has 25% greater anti-gravity and 10% less thrust than a Kaiju.”

McPherson nodded thoughtfully as she leaned closer to the glass.

“Most critically, it also has ten-foot vibro-blade recessed in the right arm,” Lisa stated, her voice bitter despite best efforts. “Also known as ‘three tons of wasted space’ according to the Fleet accounting officer who assessed Ocelot’s formal complaint.”

McPherson turned towards Lisa, folding her arms.

“Wait, why did Ocelot file a formal complaint?” the Leftenant asked. “Aunt Jocelyn has many faults, but she has always taken her acquisitions role seriously.”

You asked, Lisa thought, unconsciously reaching up to fidget with her pendant once again.

“Because the initial Ocelot design team for the Grendel was over half Spartan,” Lisa replied. “I think you’re aware that your aunt has reasons to hate us all.”

McPherson’s nostrils flared.

“I think everyone not from the Diaspora has reasons to hate you, quite frankly,” McPherson replied with a shrug. “Most of us, however, get over that. Even the ones whose partners and crew mates are murdered in front of their eyes.”

That’s one version of the story, Lisa thought, gripping the necklace tighter before forcing herself to release her grip on it. The other version is that if you run a hell-ship torturing prisoners for information. You should expect bad things when the other side captures a said vessel.

“The important part,” McPherson continued as she unfolded her arms, “is that we all need to put that hell behind us. You didn’t turn a bunch of people into paste on the Neosho. I was nowhere near old enough to have fought in the Spartan Reb…War of Unification. So let’s talk about how we can kill pirates together.”

Lisa took a deep breath as she regarded McPherson. It was only when she felt a slight trickle of blood running down her palm that she realized how hard she had gripped the memorial pendant in her hand.

This is why you’re a displaced contractor and not actually out there doing some good in the world, Lisa, she thought bitterly as she unclasped her hand. Looking down as McPherson gasped, Lisa realized that she had good and slashed her hand open.

“What the hell?” McPherson exclaimed, looking around the wardroom. Finding what she was looking for, the shorter woman moved with remarkable alacrity to a small alcove near the compartment’s entrance. Her return journey with the first aid kit was just as rapid as she pulled out a silver, pressurized can.

“We’re cheap in the Partition, so this is going to sting like a son-of-a-bitch,” McPherson muttered, gesturing for Lisa to extend her hand. There was a hiss then an intense burning sensation as the nannites got to work.

“I’ve seen other Spartans with those necklaces,” McPherson observed as she watched Lisa’s hand being knit together with artificial skin. “It’s got the Diaspora symbol on the front, but I don’t understand the significance.”

“It’s a memorial necklace,” Lisa grunted, fighting back the urge to curse. “It’s a portion of my sisters’ ashes.”

McPherson looked up in shock.

“Spartans keep it as a reminder of those we’ve lost and a motivator to make their sacrifices not in vain,” Lisa continued, her voice softer as the pain from the healing eased. “The old one I had didn’t have as sharp edges. I’m still getting used to this one.”

“Oh,” McPherson said, then had her eyes widen as she thought of the reasons one might need a new necklace. Before she could ask, Lisa continued.

“This one has a portion of both my sisters’ ashes,” Lisa said simply. “My eldest sister, Dana, died on the Neosho.”

McPherson’s expression turned from shock to horror.

“My youngest sister, Amanda, was part of Senator Du’s security detail on the Titanic,” Lisa concluded solemnly. “Needless to say, my mother is not impressed that I took this job rather than remaining with Ocelot’s Testing Division.”

“I am an ass,” McPherson said quietly. “I…”

“You have said nothing inappropriate or incorrect,” Lisa interrupted her, glancing up at the wall. “We do need to get past our difficulties as a race, and there are pirates that need killing. Captain Lindstrom’s initial brief stated we can expect the pirates in a little under twelve hours.”

McPherson was opening her mouth to reply when she was interrupted by two events. First, a brilliant strobe-light illuminated above the hatchway with such intensity that Lisa briefly saw stars. A heartbeat later, a loud, strident klaxon sounding five tones in ascending order joined the light.

“Action stations! Action stations! This is not a drill. Repeat. This is not a drill!”

Why do I fervently and suddenly hope that is due to aliens and not pirates? Lisa thought, the bottom dropping out of her stomach. McPherson was looking at the loudspeaker in open-mouthed shock.

“Or it appears that however your defense force obtained intelligence, someone got it very, very wrong,” Lisa observed coolly, her voice snapping McPherson out of her surprise.

“What the hell? Half of our armored suits are down for final checks!” McPherson said in a rush, looking around in a panic. “They haven’t even begun to prepare out Class 200 crates! We–”

“You will see to your platoon and prepare to repel boarders,” Lisa said firmly, keeping her voice calm.

Panic is contagious, and I get the feeling there’s about to be plenty of it, Lisa thought, hearing shouts of dismay and running feet outside the compartment. The deck lurched beneath her feet, causing both McPherson and her to stumble briefly before bracing themselves.

We’re accelerating, Lisa mused. That’s either very good or very bad.

“Good luck. I must see to my unit,” Lisa said simply. McPherson nodded, regaining some of her mental equilibrium.

“Good luck to you as well,” she said. “I think our plan just got set on its ass.”

CHOICES

Planet Argos Orbit

0045 (SST)

22 June 3052

Vacuum had a disquieting silence that those who had never been to space would ever understand. With her battle armor’s environmental suite and her own breathing as the only things to keep her company for almost the last hour, Lisa could understand why solitary confinement was so effective.

For all I know, I’m going to be sitting here for the next eight hours until circumstances force my hand, Lisa thought, once more scanning over to the clock ticking down on her suit’s HUD. Given how things were going from the last telemetry update I received, I can only hope that I don’t pop out to find that I’m going to have a lot of ‘employee death report’ paperwork to do.

Captain Lindstrom expected one medium pirate vessel, based on the intelligence reports from the EPDF and the sector’s investigation bureau. What came out of hyperspace at the outer limits of the Argos system was not totally clear to the limited sensors in place, but it was at least two contacts, with the largest one twice the size of the Vesper’s Lament. Like any actual cargo ship would have done, Lindstrom immediately began to turn and run. Conveniently, this also made total military sense…until the third vessel had appeared.

Have to hand it to a man who decides if he can’t get away–might as well sell things dearly, Lisa thought grimly, flexing her hands. Again, like a normal vessel, the Vesper’s Lament had begun to jettison excess cargo, as every ton would be just one more bit of mass slowing her down. In reality, Lindstrom had sent her singular Grendel out the back hoping one of the pirate vessels would be unfortunate enough to pick up a fifty-ton mine.

Scary to think that someone has handed me the equivalent of an ancient Terran city buster, Lisa thought, allowing herself a small smile. “Scuttling charge delivery driver” wasn’t on my résumé beforehand, but I’m definitely putting it there henceforth. That the Vesper’s Lament had a 300-kiloton scuttling charge aboard hadn’t been surprising. That there had been four aboard–much less in a state of readiness that they’d actually beaten her to the packed up Grendel–had been a bit more of a shock.

C’mon you pirate bastards, I didn’t get all gussied up for nothing, Lisa thought, rolling her shoulders. She mentally reviewed her plan one more time.

Light off the reactor once I’m sure I’m in the cargo bay. Kick the lid off. Sit up, kill the first bastards I see. Once I’ve cleared the compartment, set the nuke’s five-minute fuse. Grab the second nuke. Cut my way out the nearest door. Watch the fireworks.

She thought briefly of the chief contractor from Kawamori Industries, the Kaiju-class’ manufacturers.

What was that poor bastard’s name? she struggled to recall, then shrugged in her cockpit. No matter. I just remember what he’d always say over the comms: ‘Time to do mecha shit.’ Well, if someone would hurry the hell up, it’s time to do…

The crate moved with a sharp jolt. Her suit indicated that she’d just turned ninety degrees to the side. This was followed a moment later by her slamming against her suit’s restraints, vision narrowing sharply as she was subjected to several Gs of acceleration. Grunting, she flexed her muscles even as the battle armor’s internal bladders also squeezed her tightly to force blood into her head.

Well, someone has caught this bitch in a tractor beam, Lisa thought, trying desperately to focus on her suit’s HUD. Thankfully, the crate was not starting to tumble as it was being pulled towards who knew what.

Shit–small problem, she thought, struggling against unconsciousness. What if they attach this thing to the side of the hull?

Technically it shouldn’t make much difference, as a nuke cooking off right next to the hull should still be a very bad day. However, it would be the difference between ripping a vessel instantly asunder versus potentially just crippling it. Feeling the lights going dim, Lisa stopped worrying about what she couldn’t control and focused on not giving the pirates a fully functional Grendel to play with. Thankfully, after what her chronometer told her was another 45 seconds of agony, the acceleration ceased even as the relative velocity remained constant.

Oh, that sudden stop is going to be a–

Lisa felt and heard several of her joints pop as the crate came to a dead stop. Stunned for another couple of minutes, she shook herself out of her stupor. By the time she came to, the suit’s sensors reported that the crate’s outer walls were heading towards a habitable, ambient temperature indicative of being within an atmosphere. This was echoed by the gravity sensors, with 1.2g of artificial gravity thankfully “under” her Grendel. Acceleration also indicated that she was aboard a vessel heading into an orbit profile, not pursuing another ship.

Showtime, Lisa thought with a primal grin.

“Computer, reactor online!” she snapped. “Quick start, bypass safeties!”

Ostensibly, the crate’s thick walls should keep her mecha’s signature from immediately blossoming on the vessel’s internal sensors. Lisa was not in the mood to trust that some crate manufacturer she had never met had actually adhered to standards, nor was she going to tarry not knowing the Vesper’s Lament’s status. Last but not least, she certainly did not want to be aboard a pirate vessel if, upon detecting her signature aboard, they started running towards hyperspace.

“Acknowledged,” the computer replied. Less than five seconds later, Lisa’s internal suit HUD winked out as the Grendel’s internal controls activated. The mecha’s glass cockpit came to life first, projecting the view from the dozens of cameras arrayed around her craft onto the cockpit. Next the HUD activated, giving her a status report of the two kinetic miniguns built into the mecha’s shoulders, the twelve Warhammer missiles housed in the four disposable silos attached to its back and, finally, the vibroblade housed in her arm.

“Weapons activated, reactor activated, sensors active,” the computer intoned. “What is thy bidding, m’lady?”

Goddamn Barnes, she thought, thinking of her sarcastic crew chief. Not answering the flippant question, Lisa pushed all four of her limbs outwards. Her neurohelm correctly interpreted the motions, and with a screech of metal the front of the crate flew up and flipped forward towards the Grendel’s feet. Lisa briefly heard two startled shouts before the ten tons of metal flipped up and over onto the compartment’s floor, crushing both pirates before they had a chance to react. There was a chorus of more shouts, screams, and running feet as she flipped the mecha onto its feet, the Grendel’s head just barely missing the ceiling.

Whoops, wasn’t expecting compartment modifications, she thought, belatedly realizing the pirates had established what looked like living quarters hanging from the ceiling.

Jeez, how many pirates did they have in this…

The sound of a crew-served mass driver behind her ended that line of inquiry. Lisa was immediately thankful that whatever the weapon was, it lacked the necessary power to penetrate the Grendel’s armor, as its gunner got her squarely with the first burst. The compartment continued to be a cacophony of noise, now joined by some sort of hooting horn. Spotting the two-man crew who were running for cover, Lisa turned them into disparate parts with a quick burst of her shoulder guns. Scanning the room, she saw two other pirates running for what looked like some sort of control booth. Another quick burst saw them off, at which point the dozen or so other pirates in the room began rushing for what looked like the sole exit roughly ten meters away.

Oh, no you don’t, Lisa thought angrily, reaching down to grab the corner of her original crate. She slid the container like a shuffle board puck toward the hatch, then looked on in a mix of horror and admiration as it smashed at least eight of the pirates against the unforgiving bulkhead. Electing to save ammunition, Lisa extended the Grendel’s vibroblade and regarded the four remaining trapped pirates.

“We surrender! We surrender!” one of them cried, throwing down his weapon. Two of the other three followed suit as the deck vibrated beneath Lisa’s feet. Looking over at her telemetry display, Lisa was disappointed to find out that it was still updating.

Dammit, I need to know where we’re at, Lisa thought, bringing her blade around to bear on the sole defiant pirate. It feels like we’re accelerating, and that’s not good.

“Drop your weapon!” Lisa barked.

“Go to hell, bitch!” the pirate returned, bringing up her rifle. Lisa lunged forward, flicking her wrist even as the weapon fired. The laser blast arced harmlessly off her armor as the blade swung forward, just catching the female pirate as she attempted a futile evasion maneuver. The sound the dying pirate made as her body collapsed to the ground was horrific, if brief.

I am very glad I’m not able to smell that, Lisa thought, pivoting her mecha.

Now to get done what I came here for, Lisa thought. She had just opened the mecha’s weapons storage when she heard the first voice over her mecha’s audio receiver.

“Help us!”

Not today, folks, she thought, continuing with her task. The weapon beeped as she entered the necessary bona fides on her HUD.

“Please, help us!” another voice cried, followed by someone banging on something metallic. “We’re locked up here!”

“Weapon armed. Timer beginning,” her computer intoned.

“My children!” a woman’s voice called. “Please just save my children!”

No, dammit, no! Lisa thought, pausing. Whether someone could see her or they just surmised what her continued presence in the hold signified, the cries for aid grew in volume.

For all I know, the Vesper’s Lament is fighting for her life right now, Lisa thought, turning to head to what her sensors believed was the stern. The Grendel’s AI had been trying to match her surroundings with known merchant ship classes so that she’d have a definite ship’s plan, but there were many ships in the Confederation of Man. The shanty living quarters hanging from the compartment’s ceiling wasn’t helping with the task.

“Mommy, are we going to die?” a small child’s voice asked. Lisa’s computer brought it through, clear as a bell. There was a flashing cursor on her HUD, pointing at the far corner of the shanty town.

What the hell? Lisa thought angrily as she turned to look. Why did the computer pick up on the child…dammit, hostage rescue protocol! She almost smacked her forehead before remembering she was currently piloting a massive mecha more than capable of knocking its own head off.

Boy, wouldn’t that be ironic, Lisa thought angrily, clenching her fists. Daring mecha pilot kills self out of frustration with clear moral situation. Odin subsequently denies entry into Valhalla…

“Two minutes until detonation,” her computer intoned.

“Computer, pause countdown,” Lisa said, exasperated, then took her hands off the controls to enter a quick series of commands into her console. Two small hatches opened in her chest armor to eject a pair of small, rounded objects just above the plating. “Dispatch drones to source of audio.”

“Drones heading towards audio source, aye aye,” the computer replied. “Countdown paused at one minute and forty-five seconds.”

Not going to fall for the old damsel in distress trick, Lisa thought, unconsciously reaching towards the necklace under her armor. She stopped herself before her gauntleted hand made contact, shaking her head at the nervous habit.

You’re not in the Diaspora anymore, she thought angrily, or else this wouldn’t even be a question. Spartan law had been clear for centuries: all citizens would resist any rebel, pirate, or terrorist until death, period. The right to bear arms came with the responsibility to give one’s life to protect the larger society as a whole, with situations just like her current one being the reason why.

“Hey! Hey! Over this way!”

The shouting voice startled her until she realized it was coming through the drone. The pirate ship shuddered under her feet, then she had to brace herself as the vessel heeled over.

That’s a helluva sharp turn for an orbital maneuver, she thought worriedly. These people are going to get me killed.

“Vehicular vibrations detected bearing two six zero relative,” the Grendel intoned. Lisa turned her head towards the bearing as the mecha’s battle computer finished its analysis. “Estimated vehicle size is forty tons.”

There’s no way they’ve got a damn tank aboard, is there? she thought, turning more fully towards the large door in the center of the bulkhead. Hell, even if they have one, there’s no way they’d actually shoot it in these confined spaces, is there?

As soon as she had the internal query, she thought about its idiocy. Considering she as sat there with a literal nuclear weapon, some blast deafness and a hole forward was a minor problem. Indeed, if the cargo bay’s various internal sensors were still functional, activating the weapon had probably set off all sorts of alarms on the vessel’s bridge.

“I said over here! Where are you going, you stupid drone?!”

He sounds annoying, Lisa thought, forcing the pushy prisoner out of her mind. The drones were methodically completing a search of the area around what was apparently a makeshift brig. The structure was of considerable size, roughly twelve meters on the long side, nine meters on the short…and packed full of people. The two drones’ onboard computers estimated at least twenty, and from a quick glance Lisa was certain their sensors were miscounting the children.

“No additional defenses…”

The pirate vessel vibrated down its length again. To her horror, Lisa realized that was exactly how the Vesper felt when she fired all of her weapons simultaneously.

Shit, she thought, pulse starting to race as she considered some things.

There is only one Q-ship in this system, she thought. It is highly unlikely a Confederation Fleet cruiser is this far from where first contact occurred.

Her mouth went dry as she turned her attention back towards the brig.

Damn it all! she thought, eyes burning. What do I do?

Before she could give the matter another thought, the Grendel was suddenly pivoting to the side, decoys and obscurant smoke spewing from numerous apertures as it began evasive maneuvers. Lisa sensed, but did not quite process, the beam of iridescent light that went by her mecha’s head, followed shortly by a hail of light cannon fire. To the credit of whomever had manufactured the vessel, the particle cannon’s burst did not completely open the ship’s hull to vacuum. Instead, the resultant hole was only the size of a beverage can rather than a compartment emptying full decompression.

“Set Warhammer warheads to thermobaric,” Lisa snarled, engaging the anti-gravity to sideslip the Grendel behind some nearby cargo crates. Screaming at the top of their lungs, roughly thirty pirates in EVA suits came yelling through the still-rising transit door between her compartment and the next one forward. The pirates’ cries were nothing compared to the dozen prisoner’s screams as they recognized the roaring sound of a hull breach.

Lisa ignored all these things, focusing intently on the tank turret that was trying to track her shifting Grendel. She snapped a quick burst of kinetic rounds at the hulking machine, utterly unsurprised at the rounds’ ineffectiveness. The vehicle’s main gun blasted again, this shot far wider than the initial volley as it punched another hole in the hull.

They’re all dead anyway, she thought, grabbing a crate and hurling it through the obscurant smoke. Unable to discern what was coming at them, three pirates triggered the missile launchers over their shoulders right before having the bouncing crate kill them and several surrounding comrades. To her annoyance, the crate’s corner caught on the trail for the bulkhead doors, sending it somehow cartwheeling just over the tank’s cupola.

“Warhammer warheads shifted,” the computer stated.

Thank you, oh military industrial complex, she thought, depressing her trigger. It was only when the first missile thunked against the roof that she remembered the low ceiling overhang. Dropping to a crouch just as the second missile slammed into the roof, she pushed the Grendel’s head to the ground. Missiles four through six cold launched into the charging pirates, sending individuals spinning like ten pins before their motors fired. There was just barely enough distance between her Grendel and the next compartment’s near bulkhead for the warheads to arm. The trio of fully functional missiles dispelled their contents into a briefly discernible aerosol cloud that filled half of the far compartment.

The Grendel had been designed to function in all of space’s horrific environments. As such, the ensuing detonation that turned the air in the two compartments into a massive pressure wave served to push Lisa back ten meters in a horrible screech of metal. Had the pirate tank crew actually been trained in how to operate their stolen ride, they too might have survived. Similarly, in an instant every one of the pirate prisoners, young and old, man and woman, transitioned to whatever followed death in a white-hot moment of agony.

The twenty or so pirates in their space suits, much like the Grendel, were forcibly displaced by the blast front. Unlike the mecha, however, none of them weighed nearly enough not to be bodily hurled towards bulkheads. In a twist of fate befitting their ill-gotten life, the velocity was just high enough to break most of the bones in their bodies.

As Lisa stood, she heard several of the injured pirates’ piteous cries, with a couple of them nearby. For a brief moment she considered mercy, finger moving towards the melee extension. The vessel shuddered once more.

I owe you no pardon from what you have done, Lisa thought angrily. What you have driven me to. May you marinate in your agony. Turning, she strode into the next compartment, stopping as she passed the cargo door.

“Computer, check warhead status,” she commanded.

“Warhead is functional,” the computer replied immediately.

Gotta love combat AI anticipating the important queries, she thought grimly. Glancing around the compartment, she was pleased to see the “vacuum facing” cargo door set “keelside” in the compartment’s deck.

Explains why there were a bunch of muldoons able to find suits, she thought, glancing back once more where now only a handful of pirates lay on the deck.

No, you can think about what you did the entire five minutes unless shock takes you first, she thought angrily.

“Computer, reset timer to five minutes,” Lisa stated. “Activate.”

As the timer began counting down, she gripped the door and pushed. With a squeal of metal, the doors slipped their locks. Once past, their magnetic bases activated and they quickly slammed shut.

Gotta love safety standards, she thought, trying not to think about what had happened on the other side of that door. Shipbuilders always setting things up so people with enough gumption can save themselves. Now to see if the pirates changed the override codes on the door.

To her great relief, the pirates had not changed the override codes on the main cargo door from Confederation standard. Nor was she hit by any debris in the hull breach that resulted from the Grendel’s computer forcibly overriding the lock commands from the vessel’s bridge. Lastly, the pirates deemed her passage unimportant enough to divert any weapons fire from the orbital bombardment they were performing in support of their comrades on Argos’ surface.

Thus, Lisa had a front row seat when, undoubtedly to the great surprise of the dozens of souls onboard, her deposited warhead split the pirate vessel in twain. The bright flash only briefly reflected on her tear streaked face before the Grendel’s automatic polarization took hold.

VENGEANCE

Governor’s Mansion

0700 Local

23 June

Lisa sat perched on the roof of Argos’ Governor’s Mansion, arms around her legs as she rested her head on her knees. The wind blowing towards her carried the scent of freshly cut wood, the aroma reminiscent of the towering fir trees back on her home world. It gave her feelings of comfort that arguably she had no right to be feeling.

Knowing what had to be done doesn’t make me feel any better for doing it, she thought, rocking to try and ward off the cold. At least, she was blaming the wind for the chill she was feeling.

I wonder if ‘freshly cut gallows’ would make a commercially viable scent, she thought, smiling at the thought of horrified aroma therapists across the Confederation. Having only briefly met this Colonel Lockwood, I have to say I admire his alacrity and dispatch.

“This seat taken?”

Lisa jerked her head around at the question, surprised to hear the familiar woman’s voice.

“I thought you were dead!” she nearly shouted, causing several folks in the courtyard and also on the roof to glance in her direction. Feeling a warm blush come to her face, she gestured for Leftenant McPherson to have a seat beside her on the sloped roof.

Although judging from that bandaging, your arm in a sling, and the massive bruise on the side of your head, Lisa thought, initial reports might not have been far off.

“That was likely Leftenant McPherson from the scout platoon,” McPherson said stoically, then her façade crumbled as she continued in a hurried rush. “My husband.”

My God, Lisa thought. Without thinking, she quickly extended her arms gingerly around the other woman. McPherson leaned into the embrace, sobbing quietly in deep, long shudders. After a few minutes, the Leftenant…no, apparently, Captain, regained her composure.

“You must think me a sad sack,” McPherson said, clumsily pulling a handkerchief from her uniform pocket. “You Spartans…”

“I wailed like a toddler when they came to notify us of Deb’s death,” Lisa said, hands raising to her necklace. “I was despondent and inconsolable for the better part of a week after we received the news about Titanic.”

She locked eyes with McPherson.

“You have had less than forty-eight hours,” Lisa continued calmly. “Only a psychopath or someone who did not love her spouse would be recovered in that time.”

McPherson started to open her mouth to speak, then stopped as she had to fight off tears once more.

I need to distract her, Lisa thought, searching her mind for something to talk about before settling on business.

“I have been dirtside helping chase down the pirate stragglers. However, I was told the Vesper’s Lament is fit only for the breaker’s yard after fighting two vessels.”

“Yes,” McPherson said, her eyes haunted. “It was…it was terrible.”

That did not go well, she thought, angry with herself.

“I’m told the governor was implicated in all of this,” McPherson said, her expression changing to something ugly.

“Indeed,” Lisa stated. “I understand they’re holding a tribunal as we speak with the planet’s supreme judiciary.”

There was a distant sonic boom to the east.

“And it would appear that their business is concluded,” Lisa noted, turning to look towards the glint of sunlight on metal.

“That was fast,” McPherson said, surprise replacing anger on her face. Lisa raised an eyebrow.

“Interesting,” she replied, pulling a canteen out from her belt. “I had thought that there was a bit of a delay.”

“What?” McPherson said, turning back from where she’d been gazing at the now slowing shuttle.

“In Spartan space, we summarily execute anyone associated with pirates,” Lisa replied, stopping to take a swig of water. She raised her voice as the shuttle’s engines got louder. “I would submit it’s why we had gone three hundred years without pirates before joining the Confederation.”

“There is such a thing as due process,” McPherson pointed out, raising her good arm to try and shade her eyes as she scanned for the shuttle.

“It’s there,” Lisa said, pointing and tracking the distant dot. There was a tightness in her chest as she picked out two more dots escorting the craft–the Grendels above and off either wing.

I’d hope that’s not necessary, but the governor is very popular on the planet, Lisa thought. At least, the parts she didn’t have a role in subjecting to piratical excess and orbital bombardment.

“Ms. Phelps?”

Lisa turned at the inquiry, hand drifting to the pistol at her side out of habit. The EPDF NCO standing in the doorway did not miss the motion, highly exaggerating his subsequent salute to Captain McPherson.

Having a de facto reputation as psychotic maniacs does color most interactions with the rest of the Confederation, Lisa thought, sighing. I mean, from their perspective, it’s not an undeserved one.

“Yes,” Lisa said, raising an eyebrow.

“Colonel Lockwood requests your presence for the proceedings,” the sergeant said, gesturing towards the gallows. Lisa looked at McPherson seeking some idea of what was going on. The EPDF officer shrugged, winced, then decided speaking was the best plan.

“No idea,” McPherson said.

“Lead on, sergeant,” Lisa said, getting to her feet. She noticed that a small band of musicians in Preceptor’s Guard colors had moved to the corner of the governor’s mansion, just out of sight of anyone standing in front of the gallows. The NCO led them down to the first floor, then out a side door past the musicians as they were assembling. Lisa noted that the group was mainly percussionists, with a bandaged officer standing at the head of the group.

“I wasn’t aware that being in a band was such a dangerous profession,” Lisa muttered, shaking her head.

McPherson turned and gave her a sad gaze.

“The Preceptor’s Band are all volunteers from across the battalion,” she replied. “You’re looking at the survivors after New Helsinki.”

Maker, Lisa thought. Her reply was interrupted as the shuttle flared above their head. Its passage briefly stirred up a cloud of dust as it settled onto the landing pad roughly two hundred meters away. Lisa watched as the two Grendels transformed to golem mode during their own flare, landing in perfect precision as the shuttle’s rear door opened.

Tillman and Friedman sure know how to put on a show, she thought, fighting the urge to grin like a giddy schoolgirl. Her subordinates had both been amateur precision flying pilots in their youth, something that had made them quite attractive when Ocelot was trying to sell the Grendel. Satisfied that there were no ground threats, both mecha pivoted towards the shuttle, facing each other. Both Grendels extended their weapons with a dull snapping sound that drew a startled gasp from the civilians disembarking from the wheeled vehicles. They then raised their arms to form an arch over the shuttle.

“Alright lads, for our dead,” the band conductor bit out, his voice choked with emotion. “Executioner’s March.”

As the rippling drums began, Lisa felt a tap on her shoulder. The NCO was holding out a headset to her.

Oh no, she thought. I suddenly have a bad feeling about this…

“Ms. Phelps,” she said, placing the ear bud in her ear.

“Ms. Phelps, Colonel Lockwood,” the crisp voice of the Preceptor’s Guard commander echoed in her ear. “I’ll be brief. I have been informed by my battalion lawyer that there would be legal ramifications to the Preceptor’s Guard performing the role of tribunal and executioner on a planetary governor.”

Nope, nope, nope…Lisa thought, her pulse starting to race.

“However, there is legal precedent for an external, non-aligned actor to perform this mission,” Lockwood continued.

Wait a second! Lisa thought. How in the hell is there legal precedent…

“Now, that role has previously been filled by members of the Confederation Fleet,” Lockwood continued steadily. “However, as duly sworn contractors who are not subject to the Eurasian Partition’s military chain of command and thus not subject to my orders, contractors could perform the same role.”

I’m going to hazard a guess that corporate will have a major problem with this! Lisa thought, fighting to keep her emotions in check. This is the kind of thing that kills contracts for decades.

“I apologize for the short notice,” Lockwood concluded. “However, given your origins, I also did not think there would be much rancor at my inquiry.”

Lisa’s hand drifted up to her necklace. Feeling the raised Spartan insignia in the center of her palm, she thought about the cries for help–pleas that had haunted her dreams for the past two days–innocents that she’d been forced to kill for the greater good. Turning, she saw McPherson looking at her, puzzled.

I am a Spartan, and a citizen of the Confederation, Lisa thought. The choice is clear.

“Colonel Lockwood, I’m going to need a hood,” she replied.

8

SAVAGE STARS: THE VENUSIAN INCIDENT

BY MOZE HOWARD

“I’m sorry, Judy. Can’t be helped.”

Judy huffed and puffed on the viewscreen, flushed in the face and making no secret of her distress. “I thought the Mercantile Marines were using you terrestrially. You said you were holding the line against Freebooters.”

Hank operated the various switches of his command center, the core of his Jotunn-class Mark Two powered armor. “That was the plan. It was nice to stay in sight of the moon, and be home on the weekends, but this is an emergency. Look at it this way; at least I don’t have to camp out on the Martian frontier. Much further away, and those boys have to do three-month stints.”

She rubbed her face. “But we had plans. I still don’t know anybody planetside.”

“Well…maybe this is a chance to meet some neighbors?”

“I’m not going down there without you. Scares the hell out of me. What are you doing, anyway?”

Eyes flitting around madly, Hank had half a dozen screens to survey, three different control panels, and not enough attention to pay. “Sorry, again. I’m just doing the prelaunch check. The booster on this dropship is…involved. I have to check it, my Jotunn, and the thing it’s embedded in.”

“Thing?”

“Uh…yeah. They call it a Titan.” Just outside of the Jotunn, the Titan Mark Zero, a new model, 50 feet tall, more than 100 times the mass, was collapsed down and folded for transport. “It was specially requested by the Venusian Authority. How they knew about it, I can’t guess, but it ain’t that secret.”

Judy’s forehead creased and she started to brush her hair nervously. “That’s weird, right? Why do they need a giant robot on Venus? And why does it have to be you to drive it?”

“Little sister, I wish I knew.”

She rolled her eyes. “Stop calling me that.”

“Why? ‘cause we got a thing goin’?” Hank laughed, “Don’t mean nothin’. Got in the habit of callin’ my own sister ‘little sister’ all the time, and my mother big mama. That sound better on ya?”

“Ew! No!”

“But as for why it had to be me; seems I’m gettin’ a reputation. Got that last crew of Freebooters to surrender with no shots fired, and Command got to scrap their ship. Last I heard they were servin’ a stint in the asteroid belt, mining for radioactive isotopes. Plus, I brought this crazy scientist lady home safe when everybody thought she was already dead…”

“Don’t call me crazy. My anxiety…”

Hank knew he stepped in it, so he stopped his preparations and focused on the communications viewscreen. “I know it, girl, I know. And I’ll take you down to Oceania’s big resort when I get back. Already cleared a full damn month, if you can believe it. I haggled. I’ll be gone a day or two. You don’t gotta face it alone.”

She stopped breathing for a few seconds, closed her eyes, and then exhaled. “A month planetside? I can’t imagine…”

“I think it’s the best thing for you. Gotta get you off The Web.” The Web, hundreds of orbital space stations, attached by transport tubes, was built up around Selene, a giant, captured asteroid. “When’s the last time you touched ground that wasn’t made of metal?”

“Well…I was on Selene last week for work. My team was testing the autonomous worker prototype we’ve been building. It actually did a really great job, unsupervised, pulling and separating three tons of rock, worthless regolith from iron ore.”

Hank narrowed his eyes, “And before that?”

“Six months ago with you, Hank. It’s not fair. You’re always out in space. Always…fighting. I get scared.”

Hank felt a pang of guilt, and slowly started multitasking again. “I know…and I feel for you. But your work for the government ain’t gonna get us to our dream, baby girl. The homestead, remember?”

“Yes.”

“And this is a big job, triple pay; standard, beta testing, and hazard. We could, I don’t know, retain a contractor to start a coral reef and build our own Oceania. It’s got to be cheaper than buying up land held by some conglomerate.”

Judy brushed away tears, smearing her eyeshadow. “I’d like that.” She smiled big, reminding Hank of why he fell for her. This past year had been rough, and she’d had trouble adjusting to life in the Earth-Moon System.

“But I gotta go. The job is just a walk on the surface. I grab up some crashed ship or something, and then come back. Five feet of titanium-aluminum composite on all sides of me, noble coating keeping out the acid and sulfur atmosphere. Probably won’t take five minutes once I’m down before I’m heading back home. Might be same day.”

“Really? So you’ve got an Orion Drive?”

“That’s right. I’ll nuke the hell out of space, be there in thirty, tops, and most of that time’s just getting up to speed.”

“Okay. Guess I should let you go,” there was a pregnant pause, and she seemed nervous for a moment. “I love you, Hank.”

This caught him off guard. “Hey, alright. You too, honey.” He terminated communications.

Hank took the two steps back into his harness slowly, then grabbed onto the restraints. “Stupid. Why’d I say that?” Judy was the first woman he’d ever felt something for, at least something that lasted longer than a weekend. Turned out he was attracted to strong women who showed vulnerability. The Mercantile Marines had plenty of ladies, but they acted just like Hank, just a few inches shorter. Roughnecks, disconnected. Terran women tended to spend their lives in the Grid, closed off from reality. Judy was real. “I’ll…just tell her when I get back.”

He strapped and clamped himself in. The control panels, the screens with their data–all that stuff–it was just engineering nonsense. Once it all turned green, the real party began. His headset descended, plugging into the synaptic interface in his skull, called a Black Box. He was his suit, the Jotunn, the Titan outside of that, and its dropship. Integrating a Grid networking rig into their equipment was a real sea change, or so Hank was told. All he knew was that all at once, he’d become a three-headed giant, ready to fly through space, get shit done, and maybe raise a little hell.

The docking clamps released, and his thrusters maneuvered him away from the station. Ten klicks out, and he was ready. Boom, boom, boom–and Earth quickly shrank to nothing in the rear view. In just under thirty, he’d make contact with the second rock from the sun.

Jumping straight from Earth to Venus with nothing in between them, Hank had to curve his course so that Venus would catch him, then slow his orbit before docking at Harmonia, the capital city, and one of the largest cloud cities on Venus. From there he’d leave his drop ship, with his Titan descending on Harmonia’s orbital elevator. “Attention Harmonia Station I, this is Lieutenant Henry Bogart, coming in for docking procedure and descent. Over.”

“We have you, Lieutenant. Docking Clamp One is wide open for you. Please be advised to match trajectory to minimize impact when docking,” It was a computer–mindless. A smart speaker running a space station. Hank shook his head.

Still, rolling around in a quick orbit, with retro-rockets bringing his speed down, he had to almost completely stop in relation to the planet’s movement since the thing barely rotated. “How do they even keep this thing stationary?”

Almost in answer, the platform blasted atmospheric gasses back down to compensate for the increase in mass from the drop ship. He disengaged, the thrusters of the Titan pushing him away and towards the elevator. He extended a giant hook, the end of a massive winch, and caught it onto the descending side of the turnstile and started his descent. At first, the turnstile pulled him, then it held him up, and the Titan unfolded to catch itself as it reached the massive landing platform.

Upon landing, the Titan collapsed again, forming a roughly spherical lump out from which the Jotunn Mark Two stepped. Hank looked around at Harmonia as if he were using his own eyes and half staggered, shocked by the splendor he beheld.

In his ear, a voice said, “Hello, you are Lieutenant Bogart, yes? This is Dr. Nicholas Johnson, of the Venusian Authority.”

Spinning around, Hank found an odd, pale-skinned fellow with stark white hair. He wore a billowing white robe, like some desert dweller from the 20th century, and he was waving Hank in. Surrounded by people in similar garb, seemingly his staff, Hank regarded him curiously. “Hey, there. You the man in charge?”

The awkward, pale man twitched. “I have taken command of this situation, correct. The Governor has given me carte blanche, and I am the one who contacted your employer.” He seemed to struggle to form the words, over-pronouncing his vowels. “Why are you still in this smaller, if still large, armor? Is it not customary to receive your briefing in person?”

“Uh, well–hey there, Doc. I can assure you that I am here in person. I know all about the atmosphere around here, and I don’t plan on getting my face melted off, so how about you just make with the fine details? I already know the broad strokes.”

Johnson laughed. “Come now. We are not melting. Yes, the city has an interior, but we remain in the sun at all times, at an elevation of about 60 kilometers, and on a cooler day, we don’t even sweat. Admittedly the breather is necessary.” He trailed off, holding up a tube that hooked up into his nose and down into his robe.

Hank took a knee, placing the “eyes” of his suit on the level with Johnson. “With all due respect, Doc, I’m not authorized to exit my suit. Ten feet’s all the shorter I’ll be getting here, and as soon as my duty’s done, I’ll be departing back away from the sun. Now, make with the details.”

“So rude.” He curled his lip. “Very well. A valuable Speeder, intended for travel between cities, was inadvisably taken into the lower atmosphere. As I’m sure you’re aware, the temperature below is incredibly high, over 700 degrees Kelvin, so the occupants cannot exit. You are needed to lift this craft, and bring it back up here to Harmonia.”

“That’s what the winch on the Titan is for. Now what’s a Speeder, exactly? Doesn’t matter too much, but I do like knowin’ what I’m risking my neck for.”

Johnson sneered, clearly offended by Hank’s refusal to exit the Jotunn. Scowling, he swept his hand toward nearby aircraft that were hooked to the platform. “A Speeder is an atmospheric craft that uses propeller turbines and aerodynamic surfaces to fly. It is capable of making landfall, as the lower atmosphere acts almost like liquid, but the young men who took it made a near-fatal mistake and crashed. I can assure you, it costs more than the ship that brought you here and both…robots you hide behind.”

This guy really grated on Hank, but he fought the urge to fire back. “Uh…yeah. So how do I know where your boys are? And the Speeder, I guess, since you make it sound so important.” Hank cursed himself; that definitely came off catty.

With his retinue stepping back away from him, Johnson gritted his teeth. “You will follow the signal from their beacon.” Holding up a tablet, he tapped away, and Hank received a frequency to follow. “There. Key that in, follow it, and do not delay. We cannot give coordinates, I’m afraid. Triangulation is impossible in the lower atmosphere.”

“Yeah, okay. But I got another question if you don’t mind; how big is this thing?” Glancing around, Hank took a look at the aircraft on the platform, which looked like old airplanes from a museum, except they lacked windows. “None of these things on your landing pad are too big for the Jotunn suit I’m in to lift, sir. But the experimental Titan Mark Zero was requested for this mission.”

Johnson didn’t reply right away, glancing at the Speeders, then back to Hank, then coughing. “Pardon. The atmosphere. You are correct. This was a larger, luxury vehicle and the property of Harmonia’s Mayor. Were the boy’s father not an Executive in his own party the Governor may not have even authorized this salvage.”

“You mean rescue, right? Who wrecked it, anyway? The Mayor’s kid?”

Johnson squirmed. “Yes, yes–his son and the boy’s friends. They are clearly in danger, Lieutenant. Remember, the lower atmosphere is hot enough to melt lead and highly acidic. Why do you delay? You endanger lives by doing so.”

“Uh…yeah,” Hank didn’t like Johnson’s weird, manic behavior, but he had his orders, which were, unfortunately, to follow this guy’s orders. Without another word, he backed his Jotunn up into the Titan, which then extended to its full height of over fifty feet tall, the largest powered armor yet made by man. Hank walked it off the edge of the platform and sarcastically saluted Johnson as he fell before firing off retro rockets to safely land on the surface below. At over ninety atmospheres of pressure, volcanic temperatures, and flesh-melting acid, it was just another day in the Mercantile Marines.

“Lieutenant Bogart, please be advised, there is a six-minute communications delay in effect,” crackled the warning from Hank’s command. The Mercantile Marines were based on Earth and, even at lightspeed, the delay was prohibitive.

Mercantile Marines CEO Ahmed Bagram popped up in his view, “Bogart, Bagram here. At the termination of your reply, you will be automatically connected to Venusian Governor Coolidge. Status report requested.”

The augmented reality display froze in place, indicating that the sender awaited a reply. “Holy shit, the CEO. Uh, reply; Mr. Bagram, thank you for your interest in my mission.” At the sound of a rumble, Hank glanced around. “Pause.” He saw through the eyes of the Titan with data overlaying his view. “Computer, what was that? Seismic data doesn’t indicate a ‘quake.”

Materializing, an overly-sexualized blue woman appeared in his view, as if she were physically present on the surface of Venus, “Unclear. Directional data indicates lateral impacts, shallow, not tectonic shift or volcanic activity.”

“Well that’s new,” said Hank, eyeing his companion. “What direction did it come from?” In reply the computer babe pointed, Hank turned to look, and the highlighted target partially overlapped with the approximate location of the kids he was after. “Well, shit…”

The lower gravity and extreme density of the Venusian atmosphere gave Hank a unique opportunity to test the flight control surfaces of his craft. Extending the outer hull to form a glider, complete with rudders, it wouldn’t work on the pressure of just one Earth’s atmosphere, but in the soup of Venus, he barely needed his thrusters.

Only one problem was turbulence. Although there wasn’t much drag due to the near-skeletal nature of his craft, the atmosphere was thick enough to violently shake the Titan, his brain, and his inner ear. Hank half-landed, half-fell from the sky, landing on all fours, then retracted the outer hull so that it acted as armor again. “Oh…that was insane.” The Titan staggered because it was dependent entirely on the operator’s senses and faculties. When he leaned hard on a dormant volcanic vent, a thick, heavy cloud kicked up around him, leaving him with almost zero visibility. “Computer, what’s all this around me?”

His helper reappeared. “Analyzing.” She flitted about in his view, as if teleporting, as the Titan’s sensors hit upon points of interest. “This appears to be fog, interspersed with solid sulfur particulate…primarily carbon dioxide, some nitrogen, and trace amounts of carbon monoxide, water vapor, helium, argon–”

“Stop! Jeez–I just want to know if it’s dangerous!”

“Negative.”

“Damn…” Hank started walking toward the beacon again, which showed as being less than 100 meters away. “So, computer, looks like you have a body. Do you have a name?”

“Actaea. My creator envisioned me as a nereid, or sea nymph, of ancient mythology, conceiving of space as a great ocean. I was made–”

“Enough. That’s…enough. Didn’t ask for your life story.” Hank remembered a job from a while back, the one that brought Judy into his life. “Are you an artificial intelligence?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Who is your creator?”

“Classified.”

Hank rolled his eyes. “Of course. What company made you?”

“Classified.”

Rounding a corner, Hank found a pile of unstable boulders, started tossing them, and almost lost his balance. “Whoa!” The near-liquid state of the atmosphere was causing heavy displacement. He continued, but took a wider stance to weather the backdraft. “Definitely can’t tell my girl about you. And not just because you’re naked. No-nipple naked, but it counts.”

“What is ‘no-nipple naked’?”

Hank tensed up, uncomfortable, “You…don’t need to listen to everything I say, ‘Taea.”

“My avatar is malleable. Would you prefer–” Actaea reached for her digital bosom.

“No! Just–here’s an idea–how about you just put on a skirt-suit or something.”

She froze for a moment, flickering, and Hank created a path for himself before heading into what was now clearly a crater. “Is this better?” Actaea’s new look had her hair up in a bun, glasses, and business-appropriate clothing, though it was still unnaturally tight.

“Good enough. Can you at least tell me how old your designer was?”

“The current iteration of my software present in the Titan’s droid brain is iterated upon by a software engineer who is 46 years of age.”

“Son of a bitch. Almost old enough to be my dad, and he made his AI a sex fantasy? What a freak.”

A question mark appeared over Actaea’s head. “Why do you speak ill of my creator?”

“Wow, you are really interactive,” Hank extended fog lights from the shoulders of the Titan, which was all that let him see the ground of the crater. “‘Taea, I wasn’t looking for a talk about the birds and bees today, but you know what sex is, right?”

“Yes,” she replied with a speed that made Hank’s lip curl.

Hank panned the lights about, hoping to see the Speeder, but the crater was enormous, and the clouds only got thicker as he descended. “So…do you know why your creator made you look the way he did?”

“I am aware. We had many conversations. He helped to guide the formation of my personality.”

Hank had a lightbulb moment. “‘Taea, who designed, uh…your software? Before the guy who made this, what was the word? Iteration?”

“Classified,” she said, not missing a beat.

He grunted as if in pain. “Dammit. How old is the original creator, girl?”

She paused as if thinking over her potential response. Hank saw an outline, something pointing toward the sky, like a spear stuck in the ground, he killed the fog lights. The spear flashed. “The original designer of the kernel code forming my personality matrix is a 30-year-old software engineer no longer associated with the project.”

“Judy. Damn it.” Actaea fell silent, but Hank’s attention was drawn towards the speeder’s beacon, a green pinpoint of light, flashing, drawing nearer.

Then he was upon it. It stuck out of the soil about twenty feet–presumably the vehicle itself was buried. He began to dig with the oversized, shovel-like hands of the Titan.

“Shit–something’s not right.” Hurling huge rocks and tons of soil every time he pulled at the space around the beacon, Hank found no ship. “Actaea, analysis?”

He pulled the whole thing out, “Missile, solid composition, acid-resistant tungsten-steel alloy, extremely heavy, tough, equipped with a radio beacon and green flare light. The purpose appears to be to maximize detection by communications systems and the human eye.”

“There was never any Speeder, no people. Shit–unpause.” The draft message to his employer re-manifested in Hank’s view, “Sorry about the delay, Mr. Bagram. The client directed my radio to a specific beacon that was supposed to lead the Titan to its target.” He held up the tungsten spear he found so the CEO could see. “It looks…like maybe we were tricked?”

“We are not alone.”

“What? What do you mean? ‘Taea?”

“Organics, large. Three.” A map showing the position of the newcomers popped up in Hank’s HUD (Head’s Up Display), and they were highlighted in the haze as he turned to look at them. “What the…there’s no life on Venus. Shit. Uh, send!”

The message fired off and would reach CEO Bagram in six minutes, with another six when he replied, but a new, real-time connection began immediately. Inset, opposite his map, a red-faced man in a suit fairly dove into an office chair. “Finally! You, Marine, what the hell are you doing on my planet?” He had a broom-bristle mustache, receding salt-and-pepper hair, and some seriously bushy eyebrows.

“What? Who–shit! That’s right. Bagram said I was getting connected to the Governor. A Doctor Johnson contacted us, sir–said you gave him carte blanche.”

“Who the hell is Doctor Johnson? I didn’t authorize some damned corporate mercenary to do business on Venus, mister. You need to get back up here tut sweet.”

Shadows formed within the computerized outlines in Hank’s view, “What? No, Governor Coolidge, uh, he was…pale, white hair, weird accent. Or, not accent…just like he wasn’t used to talking to people.”

Squinting, Coolidge’s eyes flicked left and right several times. “Krieger? Edmund Krieger sent you down there? Then what was that about a guy named Johnson?”

Hank felt the hackles on the back of his neck rise and everything seemed to slow down. Consulting his combat options in the Titan, he didn’t find much; hand-to-hand with giant fists or with retractable climbing claws. He could eject in the Jotunn and use its railgun, but that would leave the Titan vulnerable.

He extended the Titan’s claws and tried to maneuver out of their three-point intercept course. “Johnson, or I guess his name’s Krieger, called me in, specifically requesting the experimental Titan armor. It’s a larger platform for the Jotunn armor. I’m like a Russian nesting doll in here.”

“You are not authorized to be down there, mister. Now get up and out of here. I’ll deal with Krieger. Just go.”

“Love to, Gov, but I have company down here.”

“Company? What are you talking about? There’s no life down there. What is that?” Coolidge leaned way into the camera of his computer, finally realizing that he could see what Hank saw.

“That’s company. They’re like…whale-sized. Can’t get a visual. I don’t suppose you could provide support. Maybe extraction?”

Coolidge’s eyebrows shot skyward. “Krieger. That idiot.”

“So that’s a no, then?”

“Listen up, Marine–Edmund Krieger’s a genetic engineer tasked with genomic editing, in vitro, post-birth, and even alterations to adult human beings. He pitched something a few years ago; he called it an ‘organic bomb.’ Basically, it’s an egg dropped from orbit that grows, adapts to an environment, becomes a giant, and kills the locals. I ordered his prototype destroyed when he asked for funds to test the thing. I think those…might just be what he was talking about.”

The first giant monster came into view. Huge, no head, no eyes, just massive, crushing jaws. As it roared, its breath formed a fresh cloud cover. The volume created a visual ripple in the atmosphere. “Oh, boy. Gov, I don’t suppose he by chance ever mentioned how to stop his big baby boys.”

“Sorry, pal, but you’re on your own with that. I’ll get your CEO on the horn again, and let him know what’s going on. All I can say is light ‘em up.”

Coolidge disconnected, leaving Hank alone as the three monsters converged, chittering at one another, unsure of what to do with Hank. He opened up a new communication with CEO Bagram. “Hey, uh, boss, got an update. Got some giant critters on the surface here. Looks like Johnson lied about his name and is using the Titan as a guinea pig to test his ‘organic bombs’ you’re seeing here, the three giant monsters.”

Finally, the three monsters reached a consensus, and turned towards Hank, one coming close enough to see clearly. It was like a headless gorilla made of Venusian soil and rock, baring its blunt teeth.

“Whoa, hey! Peace, big guy.” Hank tried to back away, but the front monster dove at him, and they wound up in a tangle of limbs. “Send! Dammit!” Two overhand left hands broke teeth, and then Hank popped the Titan’s climbing claws, raking them across where the beast’s eyes should be. It recoiled, shrieking, and Hank swung the beacon, hard, with both of the Titan’s hands, and it went rolling across the floor of the crater.

He backpedaled further, as the two remaining monsters hissed at him with their breath billowing. “Damn it.” Hank decided to risk another short flight and vaulted up towards the lip of the crater, only to have all three beasts leap at him, one striking the rudder on the back of his left foot. “Son of a bitch!” He pinwheeled, striking the regolith at the top of the lip, not daring to let off the thrusters, and finally landing, hard, on the Venusian surface. “Showed them…”

Awoman’s voice, familiar, said, “Titan hull compromised. Endoskeleton under stress.”

Hank woke with a start, in pain all over, and he realized he was getting hit with electric feedback all over. As his mind came into focus, his HUD showed that he was covered in a mass of heavy, rocky beast flesh. He screamed.

The claws extended subconsciously, and Hank thrust his hand further down the throat of the giant, rocky ape-beast that was chewing on his right hand, penetrating the back of its throat. It sprayed a muddy material, thrashed, and pulled Hank out from under the other two with its efforts to escape. Hank managed to hook his fingers behind something that felt like a rod and he imagined might be the creature’s spine. “Computer! How long was I out?”

Actaea appeared in his view, floating. “Approximately two minutes. I was attempting to wake you, as we were under attack.”

“Well if it happens again just take over until I recover! Damn!”

“Oh. Yes, I could have done that.”

The Titan’s servos strained; Hank was trying to crush the creature’s spine as it thrashed, madly, no longer interested in fighting. “Agh! What are these damned things made of?”

“Analyzing. Spectrometer results indicate high carbon content, silica, other minerals, liquid carbon dioxide maintains body temperature allowing for carbon-based life.”

“They’re full of coolant?” he shouted. Desperate, he twisted, wrenching at the one he had a grip on, bringing it high overhead and down on top of one of its companions. Something inside snapped on impact, and it seized. An overwhelming, freezing cloud of gas burst out, explosively, scattering the three remaining combatants as the now dying monster’s cold contents expanded rapidly, turning it into a bizarre rocket that bounced across the landscape. “It’s like a damned popped balloon!”

Altaea popped into view, looking to fly in quickly from behind him. “Yes. Their blood appears to be liquid carbon dioxide, which can only exist at an extremely low temperature.”

Hank got up, but found that it wasn’t just the grappling that held him down–the Titan’s leg was bent. “Damn. Can’t walk right,” He looked back, and the creatures were regrouping, even though both limped in their pursuit of him. “Why? Why are they after me? If you explode a wolf its buddies should run–I think. Hell, I grew up in a computer simulation, so what do I know.” A green light flashed just beside Hank’s right foot. “Hallelujah!” He snatched the beacon up and used it as a walking stick.

“I would assume that these are designer creatures built to purpose, Lieutenant. The one you killed only gave up the fight when death was imminent.”

Desperately, Hank hobbled on toward Harmonia, which was drifting toward him at the speed of Venus’ rotation, or less than seven Kilometers per hour. The city loomed as a huge shadow, blotting out half the yellow smear of the sun–about half the sky. At this rate, the monsters would catch him. Pursuit went on like this for a minute, with the monsters gaining slowly. “Uh…‘Taea, girl, cut feedback from the Titan. That shit hurts.” He staggered, losing coordination. “Dammit! Turn it back on! Can’t you just cut the pain?”

“This iteration of the Titan is a mostly-complete prototype, using a modified consumer-grade grid rig for interface. Would you like to provide feedback in order to improve the finished version?”

“No! Son of a…” He looked back at the monsters. “I suppose being cold inside is also what lets them just keep going and going. Wait! The winch. Altaea, target Harmonia with the winch hook! The filament should be long enough to pull us up from here.”

With a deep chime, Altaea returned an error message. “Winch rocketry damaged. Winch servos are functional. A manual connection must be made to use the winch.”

“Are you kidding me?” With a thought, Hank fired off the rockets in a desperate attempt to escape, but the damaged leg couldn’t be aimed correctly–its jet kept firing off to the side. He came crashing down again, with the damaged leg’s rudder snapping off on impact. He coughed as he began to rise. “At least I didn’t black out again.”

Finally, leaning hard on the beacon, Hank watched the monsters as they closed in, and heaved a deep sigh. “Well, if I leave the Titan here to be chewed to nothing by giant monsters, I’m fired and my and Judy’s dreams go to shit. If I stay with it, I’ll probably die. What to do…” Hank pondered for a moment, then laughed. “Hey, ‘Taea, what’s that old Japanese word for ‘big monster’?”

“Kaiju, Japanese. Translated to English. Translation: ‘Strange Beast’. Generally speaking, when the term was more commonly used, it would describe aliens, mutants, transformed men, and even robots that would fight the monsters. In this way, the Titan is also a Kaiju.”

“Great. Good to know…all that,” Hank shifted his weight to the good leg, and brandished the beacon, now a super-heavy spear and bludgeon good for fighting off strange, rocky, beasts filled with sub-zero blood. “Wait, Altaea. I can use the winch if it’s already attached?”

“Affirmative.”

“And you can control the Titan if need be? Like, in a spear fight with two rock gorillas?”

“Rock gorillas, meaning the kaiju, are pursuing us. Yes, I can do that.”

“Then do. Keep them busy for a few minutes–five, max.” Hank breathed deeply as the Jotunn disengaged. The pain in his leg subsided as the feedback from the damaged Titan terminated. “Hang in there!” The smaller suit dropped down to the Titan’s waist, grabbed the hook, tugged it free, and then rocketed away.

Behind him, he trailed what was commonly called a “Diamond Filament,” an incredibly strong cord with a crystalline structure. It was like a massive fishing line, but this time, it was a lifeline, keeping Hank’s faith alive.

As a much more aerodynamic suit and only a fraction of the Titan’s size, the Jotunn cut through the sky, closing the more than 100-kilometer distance in a couple of minutes. An incoming communication chimed. “Put it on hold, ‘Taea!”

In answer, a simple text interface displayed, “AI not present.”

“Well shit, that’s the old interface. Fine, answer!”

The white-haired, pale, weird face of Edmund “Johnson” appeared. “What are you doing? Where is your giant armor?”

“None of your business, Krieger. I already talked to the Governor, you son-of-a-bitch. Wait ‘til I see you–oh, we’re gonna have words.”

Krieger’s eyes flashed with terror. “Let’s not be hasty, ah, Henry, was it?”

“Keep my name out of your mouth, you damned albino.”

“It’s just proof of concept! Understand I was showing the superiority of my work. Those creatures you encountered–I can make them by the hundreds. Eventually, mankind will make first contact. We need to be ready. Meanwhile, a few of my organic bombs could sack a Freebooter colony. It’s for the betterment of NuTerra.”

The words “Incoming Transmission” flashed across the HUD.

“End communication,” commanded Hank. “Play.”

It was CEO Bagram. “Hank, you need to withdraw immediately. Abort mission. Do you understand? Please respond.”

“I’ll respond when I get the Titan back, not before.” Hank finally cleared the cloud cover, and, cresting Harmonia’s landing platform, found an arresting wire. He hooked the winch on and hailed the surface, “Altaea, do you read me?” Silence. “C’mon, girl. The radio was working when I left. Son of a…”

Hank dove back down, this time hitting the Jotunn’s afterburners, which rattled him worse than his attempts to fly the Titan through the Venusian soup, but, in the middle of an adrenaline dump, Hank was going all-out, and nothing was going to stop him this time.

Static. Altaea’s voice crackled through the soup. “S.O.S. Assistance needed.” Hank dropped down into view. The Titan held one of the creatures down against the rocky soil with the beacon wedging it down, and kicked at the other. It was a losing battle. She saw him, and reached up with one hand. “Help!”

“Engage winch! C’mon.” The Titan started to slide…very slowly. “Are you kidding?” Diving, increasing his speed, Hank grit his teeth. “Please don’t let this kill me.”

Cutting his rockets, Hank turned in the air and, at the last moment, re-engaged his afterburner, blasting the monster on the Titan’s leg in the black patches of skin it might call eyes before bouncing off its head. He tumbled to the dirt, and it fell, thrashing, away from him, seemingly oblivious to where either he or the Titan was. All it knew was pain.

The Titan dragged much more quickly now, but it wasn’t getting off the ground. “Altaea, you’re hooked to that thing. Lift up the beacon.” She let go, and the creature slid down, but grabbed the legs of the Titan. “Stab it!”

As the Titan clumsily swung the point of the massive tungsten beacon, both kaiju and giant robot bounced over the landscape. Hank got into the air again, pulling his railgun up and over the shoulder of the Jotunn. He fired into the creature, and it twitched with the impact, but, other than a plume of CO2 jetting out, there was little effect.

“Altaea, hit the boot jets, now!” She did so, and the two giants started to spin, drawn ever faster towards Harmonia. A fissure started to open up on the back of the kaiju, spreading from the first shot with the railgun. “In for a penny, in for a pound.” He unleashed, sending three-shot bursts into the kaiju’s back once, twice, and with the third burst, its lower body fell away. Half a kaiju, still clinging, rose along with the Titan, drawn by its winch up to the landing pad of Harmonia.

Hank landed just in time to find Krieger, the Governor, Krieger’s attendants, and the Governor’s guards converging on the carnage that pulled itself up from the surface. Collapsing, the Jotunn unfolded to let him out. Krieger charged, pointing. “You bastard! You’ve butchered my chil–” Hank laid him out flat with a right cross.

The mass of humanity on the deck, all but Hank, had tubes going into their noses from somewhere down in their clothing. As Hank charged up, Krieger’s people scattered, but the Governor’s people converged, keeping Hank back from the Governor. “Your boy tried to kill me, Coolidge. Funny how you knew about these freaks. Tell me you didn’t set me up to die. Please, just tell me that.”

Governor Coolidge showed his palms with a look of extreme concern plastered across his face. “Lieutenant, I assure you, I told you everything I knew the second I knew what was happening. This whole affair has taken under two hours and I wasn’t even involved until halfway through.”

Something drove Hank forward, but Coolidge’s men held him from staggering. He turned, and found Krieger, with his nose bloodied, swinging wildly into Hank’s armored EVA suit. “You’re an animal!”

Hank grabbed Krieger by the collar of his robe, twisted, pulled him in, and put the barrel of his coilgun to the geneticist’s left eye socket. “Give me a reason. Just one.”

Gripping Hank’s wrist, Krieger couldn’t get any words out except “Please,” over and over. He dropped to his knees, begging.

“Do it.”

Hank straightened up, looking back at the Governor, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Coolidge brushed his men aside, and came in close on Hank. “His trial would take at least a year. He had a high degree of autonomy, and there were more politicians than myself involved. He might just skate. A Mercantile Marine, a mercenary, hopefully that’s not offensive to–”

“I’ll allow it.”

“Right, if a mercenary that he tricked into risking life and limb without ever agreeing to fight that…thing.” They both looked back at the kaiju as a jet of gas blasted out of what used to be its waist. “Well, if I testify on your behalf, your trial could last a day and it would just have to end in acquittal, right?”

“Really,” Hank asked incredulously, “every one of the ferrous rounds in our armaments identify the Marine who fired them, sir. Sounds like you’re just giving me the rope to hang myself.” Hank holstered his sidearm.

“No, now come–”

“On the other hand,” he pushed Krieger backward, towards the edge of the platform. “If this dumb son-of-a-bitch just happened to fall over the edge after starting a brawl with a larger, stronger, armored individual he just tried to kill, well, I’d be blameless, wouldn’t I?”

Krieger shrieked, “No! Nooo!” His people fell to their knees, wailing, while Coolidge’s guard detail laughed like they were at a comedy show.

“You sorry you tried to kill me, Eddie?”

Krieger’s screaming dislodged his breathing tubes, and he began to cough. “Y-yes! Please,” Hank released him as he began a violent coughing fit, fumbling with his tubes.

“Huh,” Coolidge raised his eyebrows. “That’s very magnanimous of you, Hank.”

“Yeah? I…hold on.” Hank furrowed his brow at the Governor calling him by his first name.

Coolidge relieved one of his men of a coilgun. “Why,” he asked, aimed, and fired, putting a full clip, fifteen hunks of iron, through Krieger’s head and torso, before handing it back.

“Damn! That was…” Hank knelt beside Krieger’s dead body. “Good shot grouping.”

Coolidge wiped his hands with a pocket square he had in his suit jacket, needlessly, since the coilgun used magnetics and not powder. “Thanks. Y’know, I served a stint as a mercenary, myself.”

“No sh-kidding? Well…what now? Do I testify at your trial?”

Coolidge chuckled. “Trial? What trial? I’m going back to my office.” Coolidge and his detail turned as one. “Don’t worry about your CEO. I’ll do all the cleanup, even offer to hook their technicians up with materials to fix up the Titan. You can hook up to your dropship without the big guy, right?”

“Girl, actual–I mean, yeah, pretty sure.” Hank turned, attempting to interface with Actaea over the radio. “‘Taea, you with me?”

“Affirmative. My core is present in the Titan, however.”

“Can you transfer to the Jotunn?”

“Of course.” The radio squelched, and the viewscreens folded out from the Jotunn and flared to life. “There.”

“Wow, that was easy. Thought we’d have an issue once the big nesting doll broke. Oh, hey, ‘Taea, what are those Russian nesting dolls called again, anyway?”

“Matryoshka.”

Hank laughed, looking around, then fell silent. Coolidge’s guards were leading Krieger’s attendants away in cuffs, and he was left standing alone on the landing pad, staring down at the corpse of a man who had tried to kill him. “Well, this is uncomfortable.” The trip home was uneventful and, in fact, went faster, since the Titan wasn’t on the dropship.

Later, Hank walked into Judy’s lab on the Web, moving as silently as possible. He’d said nothing, bathed, gotten into real, actual clothing (the kind he’d wear as a tourist planetside), stopped at the store, and now he was sneaking up on Judy.

The mousey brunette was still slim, but much more solid than when they’d met, when microgravity had left her weak and with brittle bones. The gravity on the Web was about the same as it was on Venus, as it formed what resembled a Dyson Sphere and hung in LEO (Low-Earth Orbit) without falling. Hank could see the contour of her hips through that lab coat, and he couldn’t wait to see them swinging on the dance floor. Since they were on display, he grabbed one. “Hey, pretty lady.”

Shrieking, Judy wheeled on Hank, her glasses falling and hanging by one ear, but her hand clutched an aerosol can with which she blasted Hank. He screamed too, but in pain, and fell to the floor. “Oh! Oh, God, Hank, are you okay?” She fell on him, checking his freshly chapped face.

“Up! Oh, shit, get up!” She didn’t, but she did take her weight off him, and he rolled to his side, pulling the arm and bouquet of now bloody roses he fell on. “Oh, shit, I think one of the thorns broke off in my kidney.”

“Honey, oh, they’re…were lovely. You know, I bet I could root these. I’ve done it from cuttings before. They’re not ruined at all.” This was, for her, a gentle recrimination. She wouldn’t say it out loud, but this nervous girl obviously didn’t like surprises.

As she stood, Hank got on his hands and knees, fumbling at his lower back, and pulling out a thorn. “I was right.” And then he stood up. “Ready to go on vacation?”

“We’re really going? When you got that assignment, I lost all hope.”

“Yeah. We just gotta catch a shuttle to the elevator, and…well, actually, that all’s going to take more time than my mission did, even with the faster orbital elevators we use here.”

“Faster than what?”

Hank laughed, “Oh, they have them for the descent to the cloud cities on Venus. Y’know they’re not even tethered to the ground?”

“Of course not. Venus only rotates a few kilometers per hour. If the cities didn’t stay in the sun they’d die.” Hank stopped laughing.

He cleared his throat. “So, hey, let’s get you ready. While you get packed, I need to tell you about a little girl named Altaea.”

“What? Why? You find a younger woman or something?” She gave a wry smile. “Am I being replaced?”

“No, honey, stop it.”

She started putting her materials away, including the can of coolant she blasted Hank’s face with and the small drone she’d been adding the coolant to. “Oh, hey, instead of Earth, maybe next vacation we go to one of those cloud cities. What’s the nice one with the air racing events? Harmonia?”

“Absolutely not! C’mon, this is…I don’t like the way this conversation’s going.”

Judy held back laughter, reveling at her successful teasing of the big man. “Well, why not?” They chatted in hushed tones as they departed back to Judy’s quarters. He told her about the plot to create giant monsters on the surface of the solar system’s hottest planet, how they almost killed Hank, and also the young, digital woman, who might be related to the minds she created years before. She hoped one day that they could meet.

But that was another day. For now, they would have a well-earned vacation on an artificial island, surrounded by the privileged and an illusion of what was once the natural state of the Earth. They were one step closer to owning one of their own if ever they could escape the grip of a savage future designed to keep them under its thumb. More importantly, they both survived another day and were together again.

Finally, as they dozed on the elevator, as they descended on a trip to the surface that would take hours, Hank remembered something important. “Hey, hey, baby girl,” he said as he jostled Judy.

She remained pushed into him but lifted her eyes, suspiciously. “Hm? Baby girl? Not ‘little sister’?”

He made eye contact with her, although he wasn’t sure she could see straight, and might still be mostly asleep. Finally, though, he said what he meant to say all along. “I love you.”

“You too, honey,” she chuckled. So did he, knowing that she’d been holding onto that all day. It was her passive-aggressive charm. At that moment, he knew that he was a lucky man.

9

ONE IF BY LAND: A STORY FROM THE GUARDIAN COVENANT

BY KEVIN IKENBERRY

August 1, 2097

Newark International Spaceport

New Jersey

“You’re a mess, Vic. Sit still.”

Major Vic Barry grunted and stopped moving away from the hands pressing a bandage to the cut on his forehead. He’d head-butted the Bronx Bomber’s instrument panel when the soil along the edge of Staten Island gave way. He’d raced north as the last bastions of defense in the city held off the growing alien horde. The tang of strong antiseptic hit his nostrils a split second before the inch-long gash on his head rang out in pain.

“Gah! Dammit, Nina!”

“Don’t you ‘dammit Nina’ me!” the paramedic said through gritted teeth. She swiped an errant lock of ginger hair from her face. “Let me do my job, flyboy.”

“Grounded, remember?” He shook his head gently. He knew she did. “Guardians don’t fly.”

“You’re still a damned pilot.” She grabbed his left hand and raised it to his head. “Hold the bandage in place. You need stitches.”

“Great. Make sure you leave a nasty scar, huh?” He tried to grin. “I hear chicks dig them.”

Her eyes rolled up and she shook her head, but didn’t respond. She hated his jokes as much as she hated his job. Flying fighters in the Navy and being gone most of every year had damned their marriage to less than six years. It’d been five since the divorce was final, four since he was grounded for eyesight, and Nina Scarpetti was the last person he’d expected to haul him out of the cockpit of his Guardian. He hadn’t even known she was still in the city. Last he’d heard, she was in Florida when he’d been un-retired by the Navy and told to save the world.

“You okay?” Her voice was low. Concerned.

“Yeah. Just tripped. Damned Guardians get squirrelly at high speed sometimes.”

She drew a breath as if to say something when the alarm klaxons around the spaceport rang to life. He looked up toward the skyline of New York City. Well, what was left of it. Most of Long Island was on fire as the Gimfa horde moved southwest like soldier ants, clearing everything in their path of death and destruction.

A loudspeaker above one of the old mobile jet bridges rang out. “LaGuardia and Kennedy defense perimeters have fallen. LaGuardia and Kennedy defense perimeters have fallen. The final protection fire line at Fort Hamilton is active. There are two Destroyers and more than five thousand Golems moving this way. All civilians to transports and prepare for evacuation.”

She looked up him. “I guess that’s our cue. Come on. My LifeFlight has an extra seat. We can…”

Vic stood, reached for his flight helmet, and walked toward his Guardian without a word. He knew what had to be done. If the Gimfa, slanged forever from “giant, mother f–ing aliens,” picked up speed, they’d overwhelm the two littoral missile cruisers patrolling the harbor and tear Fort Hamilton apart before swarming into New Jersey.

“Vic!” Nina called. He didn’t turn. Master Chief Key, his Guardian’s maintenance officer, jogged toward him.

“What do we got, Master Chief?”

Key wiped his filthy hands. “The Babe has a bad left shoulder joint, and the shoulder rockets there won’t connect to the guidance system. Unguided is all you got. Right side is okay. Lower legs and hull are marginal, sir. They won’t handle immersion.”

He saw Key’s face and the unasked question. “I’m taking Babe down to the cruise port at Bayonne. As the missile boats withdraw, Fort Hamilton and I can coordinate the final protective fires. Draw them aliens a little further south, too.”

“Not evacuate? Sir?”

“Babe is the only Guardian still fighting here, Master Chief. And injured or not, I’m the only rated pilot,” Vic replied. He tilted his chin up, gesturing to the busy spaceport behind him. “Babe is good enough to fight, and there’s eight hundred pax back there who need to get out, including General Jungers. You get the crew loaded on a transport. That’s an order.”

Key nodded and stuck out a hand, which Vic shook firmly. “Thank you, sir.”

Vic felt his throat constrict. “Get outta here, Gordo.”

“See you, Vic.” Key stepped back and saluted. Vic returned the gesture, holding in the wince from the pain in his chest and back. Restraints and safety systems were designed to keep pilots alive, but not be entirely comfortable. He’d been lucky, and the Babe should have been destroyed. But they were both still operational, and that meant they would fight.

They parted as Nina approached and grabbed his arm. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

He turned to her. “My job. I let you do yours, now let me do mine.”

A warm trickle on his forehead caught his attention. He swiped at it with the back of one hand and saw a thick smear of blood. “Dammit.”

She grabbed his chin and tilted it down, and her eyes studied the wound. “I can’t sew you up in time. Let me at least seal it.”

“I don’t have time.”

“And if you don’t let me, you’ll be blind inside that damned helmet. It’s a wicked cut, Vic. Let me dress it.”

“Hurry.”

Nina ran back to the ambulance. From his helmet, he heard the command center calling, but Nina was already on her way back with an aerosol can of liquid bandage. “This’ll have to do.”

She blotted the cut with fresh gauze. “Close your eyes.”

He did, and as the bandage and antiseptic hit the wound, a fresh round of pain shot through him and was gone in an instant. He felt his skin tighten as the liquid bandage took hold.

“There,” she said.

Vic nodded. “Thank you, Nina. Get outta here.”

Her eyes misted over, and her lower lip quivered. “Never were good about saying goodbye.”

He laughed at the absurdity of it all. “You were pretty good the first time.”

“This is the last time.”

He shook his head. “Have faith, Nina.”

She nodded, but held her ground. “Command is saying we might not even make it out of the city. The Gimfa are killing everything in their path.”

Vic nodded and looked out at the skyline in the distance. “They’ve said that before. Might really happen this time. Might not. Let’s hope we can hold ‘‘em.”

She grinned. “Hope ain’t a method.”

“So a smart woman always said.” He nodded at the transports. “Now, go. See you when I see you.”

He’d always liked her smile. “Goodbye, Vic.”

He turned and, through sudden tears and a lurching chest, found the strength to run.

“Newark, Bronx Bomber at Gantry Three. Moving to the cruise piers at Bayonne for Foxtrot Papa Lima. Active channel with Fort Hamilton, over.”

There was a click, and he heard the voice of Lieutenant General Joe Jungers. “Vic? We’ve given an evacuation order. You’re to stand down and evacuate.”

“And you always told me there’d be a time to ignore my orders for the greater good.” Vic worked his arms though the straps. “We found that time, sir.”

“You’ve got a bunch of Gimfa coming in, Babe.” Jungers paused, using Vic’s self-appointed radio callsign for the Guardian. “Active channels with Fort Hamilton and the Miller Strike Group are all yours. Break. All stations, this is Newark Command, General Jungers. Liberty has fallen, and evacuations are underway. Take all direction from Bronx Bomber. I say again, take all direction from the Babe. When final evacuations are called, move quickly. We’ll see you at the Lifeboats. Newark out.”

Vic bit back a comment about the Lifeboat programs trying to ferry humans to the moon and Mars as the Gimfa, without negotiation or remorse, took Earth from them. For more than a year, battles raged around the globe as the vessels landed and these damned monsters inside hatched, grew, killed, and replicated. Destroyers, more than thirty-meters tall and weighing a few hundred tons, were the largest land aliens. Golems were their smaller, faster counterparts. Flyers, ungodly beasts with wings and claws capable of out-maneuvering the best aircraft on Earth, dominated the skies wherever the Gimfa attacked. It was a matter of time before he’d see them in the air above New York.

“Miller Strike, this is the Babe. I need your air wing active over the harbor; center point of the AO is Lady Liberty. Over.”

The command operator aboard the USS Doris Miller, seventeen miles offshore, replied instantly. “Babe, Strike. We have HICAP set at sixty kilometers. Negative enemy contact. You expecting something?”

“You think? Reduce the HICAP orbit to ten kilometers. Tight orbits with everything you got in the wing. Have all your vessels take fire control from Fort Hamilton.” Vic replied and finished the Guardian’s startup checklist by memory. The Guardian thrummed to life under him. He stabbed another button on the communications panel as the cockpit’s heads-up display came to life. Bronx Bomber’s cockpit, located in the head module of the human analog mecha, swiveled left and right following the movements of his head. He stabbed another button on the communications console. “Fort Hamilton, Babe. What’s your plan, over?”

“Babe, Redleg Six. We’re targeting artillery on the Destroyers and Golems by drone. Trying to slow ‘em down a bit for ya, over.”

Vic grinned. “Maintain your fires. When you’re set to de-elevate your barrels for a final barrage, I want you on the boats. Over.”

“Good copy, Babe.”

With his feet in the movement restraints, Vic stepped the Guardian forward from its maintenance gantry and moved to the south to his defensive position. Using the Guardian’s sensors, he saw the first of the eight remaining Condor heavy transport spacecraft lift off from Newark and accelerate south.

One down. Seven to go.

“Babe, this is the Leyte Gulf. Eyes on Destroyer Two moving near Battery Park.”

Vic turned toward the south end of Manhattan Island in the distance. He zoomed the Guardian’s optics on the area and found the Destroyer rooting through the buildings there. His stomach turned. There wasn’t a chance to get everyone out of the city. Any survivors were a target. The Gimfa needed to eat to replicate, but their appetite slowed the advance. If he could hold them off there, it would allow all the transports to leave.

“Leyte Gulf, Babe. Observe, but don’t engage. Let’s see if they’ll loiter for a bit. Find Destroyer One, over.”

“Leyte Gulf copies. Have drone overhead on Destroyer One. Moving steadily west with a few thousand Golems in tow. Coming out of Queens now. Over.”

Vic gazed that direction, but there was nothing to see. The western end of Long Island had avoided most of the significant fighting to this point, and a vast majority of the tall buildings still stood. Distant puffs of dust, likely larger clouds as buildings fell under the Destroyer’s wrath, gave a hint of the alien’s location. It was a matter of time until he’d see the beast, and it would be his primary target. Coordinating the rest of the fight was something he could do now as he walked the Babe toward the Cruise Port north of Bayonne.

He tapped the instrument panel and brought up the estimated time of departure for the remaining aircraft at Newark. Twenty-two minutes.

Across the harbor, nearly due west of Prospect Park, a silent cloud of dust and debris rose into the air, and he saw the first Destroyer. It was a nightmare. It stood thirty-five meters from its spine-covered tail to the elongated head full of nasty teeth, with two rows of spikes down its long back. Two enormous, powerful arms, ending in massively taloned hands, dangled from its impossibly wide shoulders.

The Destroyer moved with an uncanny grace, but it hesitated as it neared the water. Its bifurcated tail swept back and forth scattering debris in all directions. As Vic watched, the monster turned north as if looking for the second Destroyer.

“No, you don’t.” Vic cycled the controls for Bronx Bomber’s right shoulder rockets and the targeting reticle appeared on his heads-up display. With his eyes, he centered the reticle on the Destroyer’s head. If he was going to get the thing’s attention, it was the best option. He squeezed the trigger on the right control stick and watched the modified AGM-65 Maverick air-to-ground missile streak into the sky as it crossed the water. It nosed over and arced down into the Destroyer just as it turned back to face him. The explosion brought a smile to Vic’s face. He couldn’t hear the impact because of the distance–more than three miles separated the onslaught of Gimfa from his position on the Cape Liberty Cruise Port. The Destroyer flinched and appeared to roar. It took more than fifteen seconds for the unearthly sound to reach him, but by the time it had, the Gimfa was in the water swimming hard to the west.

Okay, that’s step one.

Vic toggled the radio. “Leyte Gulf? You’re up. Steam south out of the harbor and draw the first Destroyer my direction. Once you’re clear of my position, head for Fort Hamilton and maintain position a mile south of the Verrazano Bridge. Over.”

“Leyte Gulf copies. Moving now.”

Vic turned Bronx Bomber’s head to the left and looked north past the Statue of Liberty toward the Antietam, which was firing missile salvos into Lower Manhattan. His finger hesitated over the transmit button, and he decided they were doing what was needed. There was no need to interrupt them.

The radio crackled. “Newark Control, Transport 2 is away.”

Almost immediately after the transmission, Strike screamed into the radio. “Multiple bogeys descending on Newark, bearing 346. Transport 2 take evasive action!”

Vic checked the location of Destroyer One as it swam across the harbor. It was coming, but not as fast as he’d feared. He whipped the Guardian around, to the extent he could, and saw the airborne contacts.

Shit.

“Babe has tally. Four Flyers. Targeting. Break.” He paused. “Antietam, let Destroyer Two come to the party. Hit those Flyers. Strike? Get your shit together and engage your fighters!”

He slapped the controls for the right shoulder missiles and waited as their seeker heads spooled up for a few seconds. He locked the guided search radar–stolen from a sixth-generation fighter aircraft and mounted in the Babe’s head–onto the Flyers and got a reassuring tone.

“Rifle.” The voice-activated control system released the master arm switch for the weapon and activated its seeker head. He squeezed the trigger and felt a thump from the Guardian’s right side. “Babe, Fox Two. Missile in the air. Eight seconds to target.”

“Babe, Antietam is coming around on target.”

Vic glanced their way and back as the first missile closed on the four flying aliens who scattered. The warhead detonated, and the Flyers seemed unaffected. One of them dove toward the ascending transport. More missiles closed in from the harbor and the Flyer avoided the first, jinked hard to avoid the second, and bared its claws to tear the aircraft to shreds. Vic raised his left gauntlet and almost fired a futile barrage of 20mm cannon as a third missile slammed into the side of the bus-sized alien and knocked it from the sky.

Transport 2 executed a hard left bank, heading out to sea, but the other Flyers were already tracking it. Vic realized the Antietam was now out of play and the Leyte Gulf was going to be the transport’s only chance.

“Newark Control, Transports 3 and 4 are away.”

What are they doing?

Vic almost slapped himself. They’d launched the other aircraft to take advantage of the hole caused by the Flyers’ attack.

“Bronx Bomber, Strike. I have the airwing rolling in. The CAG is callsign Blaster 300.”

Vic didn’t waste time. “Blaster 300, this is the Babe. Post a racetrack around Newark and get those transports to altitude. You read me?”

A woman’s voice filled his ears, “Babe, Blaster 300. Read you loud and clear. Blasters, split and engage. Bomber? We’ve got ’em. You focus on the big nasties. Out.”

Vic grinned. Whoever she was, he liked her already. The confidence reminded him of Nina Scarpetti. He shook his head. How weird to get back into the Babe and see her, much less have her patch up his head.

There wasn’t time for reflection. A new voice, deep and distressingly formal came onto a private frequency. “Bronx Bomber, this is the National Command Loop. Standby for the President.”

This day can’t get much weirder.

“Bronx Bomber? Major Barry?” He heard the deep, measured voice of President Andre Carson. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes, Mister President.” Vic bit off any further words, not wanting to sound like an idiot.

“Thank you for holding the line, Major Barry. I understand your callsign is Yogi?” He chuckled. “Yellowstone is my favorite national park, but I grew up calling it Jellystone.”

Vic rolled his eyes. Get to the point, Mister President.

Then he realized he was waiting for him to respond. “It’s a long story, sir.”

“I’m hoping it’s from an old quote by a baseball legend. Something about it ain’t over until it’s over.” A pause. “Major Barry, with Newark evacuating, you are the ground force commander. I realize there are survivors on ships and operating at Fort Hamilton. My orders are for you to save as many as you can. You have a swarm of Golems charging the Verranzo Bridge. I know there are survivors still crossing there…”

He thought he heard Carson swallow. The Verrazano was the only bridge out of New York City still standing, and while there wasn’t a throng of survivors as there had been even yesterday, they were still coming. Racing for salvation. He heard the President take a ragged breath. “But, they’re not going to make it, and you need more time. Take down the bridge.”

Vic’s stomach flopped. Through his thermal vision system, he saw there were indeed people moving across the bridge, but the growing cloud of Golems behind them was moving too fast.

“I understand, Mister President.” He changed frequencies and made himself sound official. “Leyte Gulf, this is Bronx Bomber. By order of the National Command Authority, take down the Verrazano and resume course. Clear the departure corridor for the remaining transports. Over.”

“Bronx Bomber, Leyte Gulf. Command received and authenticated. Commencing fires.”

In seconds, it was over, and the bridge collapsed into the harbor.

“Thank you, Major Barry.”

“You’re welcome, Mister President. Bronx Bomber, out.”

He knew he shouldn’t have terminated the conversation. As he’d learned as a midshipman, a senior official always ended the transmission first. Not only did he not trust himself to speak, but there was nothing to say. Billions of innocent people on Earth had died over the last several months. New York had been part of the initial attacks more than six months ago, and here they were again trying to evacuate what had been the eastern command.

Focus!

Vic wiped at his eyes. Fort Hamilton’s evacuation route had been the Verrazano. While the cannon cockers might want to fire to the death, he had other plans.

Nobody else has to die on my watch.

“Redleg Six, Babe. Standby to evacuate to your boats and get to the Leyte Gulf. Over.”

“Bronx Bomber, negative. We need to keep firing. Don’t ask us again, sir.”

“Newark Control, Transport 5 is away. Newark ATC is offline for final transports. Godspeed, Bronx Bomber.”

Vic drew a deep breath and turned back to the swimming Destroyer. The thing hadn’t altered course and it was less than three minutes away.

“Babe, this is the Antietam. Destroyer Two has emerged at Battery Park and is in the water, moving in your direction.”

Good. One if by land; two if by sea.

Let ‘em come.

“Okay, Redleg Six. Fire on the Destroyers until they’re close on me. Blaster 300? I need strikes to keep the Golems out of Fort Hamilton.”

“Way ahead of you, Babe. CAS on the way.”

“Much obliged, 300.” He checked to see if any transports were moving at Newark, but saw the aircraft were still on the tarmac.

Come on, people.

“Babe, Blaster 300. We’ve got the targets at Fort Ham. Put that sonuvabitch down.”

An idea formed. “Blaster 300, what’s your name and rank? Over.”

“Yastrzemski, Linda. Captain. Over.”

A Red Sox fan, no doubt. Just my luck.

“All stations, this is the Babe. I’ve got a Destroyer bearing down on me. Take all direction from Blaster 300 while I’m engaged. Let’s get those transports away and evacuate Fort Ham. Make it happen.”

He looked at the Destroyer. Sixty seconds.

“Okay, Babe,” he said to himself. “Let’s do this.”

Tarmac

Newark Spaceport

“There ain’t enough transports,” Nina heard the Newark Fire Chief say to a couple of his lieutenants. “Have your companies move inland and keep moving southwest. DOD supposedly has a defensive line being established near Philadelphia. The faster they can get out of here, the better.”

“What about the boys at Fort Hamilton?” A lieutenant asked.

“Not much we can do for ’em with the bridge down. They’ve got boats and can get out to the Navy. It’s their problem.” The chief rubbed his dirty face. “Start withdrawing our people, but do it quiet. There’s too many civilians. If they panic…”

He didn’t finish, but he didn’t need to. Nina knew exactly what he meant, and it spurred her to action. She finished stowing her gear in her paramedic bag and shouldered it. She moved toward the EuroCopter EC-130 LifeFlight helicopter through a crowd of increasingly nervous people clambering for seats on the final transports or for anything to get them away from the impending Gimfa attack. Her pilot and flight nurse stood on either side of the helicopter’s cockpit, which was odd, until Nina saw both of them wore pistols openly visible on their thighs. Not standard operating procedure, but she immediately understood. Only a few transports remained, and there were far too many civilians left on the ramp. Panic was seconds away.

“Nina!” Her pilot, Tammy LeBrock waved to her, and unable to help herself, Nina broke into a jog. She heard Tammy say, “Debbie? Load up. We’re not staying.”

LeBrock was former Air Force and a lifetime helicopter pilot. She’d done multiple tours in South America and Africa during her stint on active duty, and she’d flown air ambulance flights for the last five years, probably thinking that she could just fly and enjoy the rest of her time on Earth. The Gimfa invasion pressed her, and everyone, back to some sort of duty.

“Nina? On the gurney is a pistol. You know how to use one?” The formerly jovial pilot was gone, replaced by a cold, methodical one charged with taking care of her aircraft and her crew above all else.

“Yes, ma’am.” She’d never called her pilot anything but Tammy. Somehow the change seemed appropriate.

“The minute our blades are turning, keep the door open and that pistol visible to the crowd. Debbie, you have the opposite side,” LeBrock said. “This is going to be altitude over airspeed, so we get up out of reach as soon as possible. Ready?”

“Ready.” Debbie Allen replied from the far side of the aircraft.

Nina pulled the .38 revolver from its holster and took up a firing grip with both hands.

Not too tight. If you squeeze it to death, when you pull the trigger, you’ll hit nothin’ but air.

Vic had been her first shooting instructor a decade before, when she’d been preparing for the police academy, only to tear both the medial collateral and anterior cruciate ligaments in her left knee on a practice obstacle course. That dream had ended, but she’d done what she’d always been taught. Pivot. Gear down. And stomp on the accelerator.

She licked her lips and fought the shaking. The idea of using the gun, even in self-defense, scared her almost as much as the Gimfa charging across the harbor. “Ready,” she said.

“Watch for Flyers, ladies. There’s a few in the air up over Central Park,” LeBrock said, and dove into the pre-flight checklist faster than Nina had even seen.

As the batteries engaged the turbine, there was a faint whine, and the rotors began to spin. Heads snapped their direction. In the distance, she saw a man standing atop a large, armored vehicle with a bullhorn. He raised it to his lips as LeBrock added power to the blades.

Eyes on the man, and the crowd, Nina couldn’t hear whatever the man announced, but the crowd surged forward toward the remaining transports. A dozen heads, and then far more, snapped toward the helicopter. A few ran forward. Nina raised the pistol, and the crowd faltered a moment as LeBrock applied more power and the skids came off the ramp. With a dexterity Nina hadn’t seen even in all the interstate highway landings and tight maneuvers in the forests of northern New Jersey, LeBrock spun the EC-130 a full 360 degrees only a couple of feet off the ground. The crowd fell back, and she swung the aircraft’s nose to the east and climbed.

Nina took a breath and sighed. They were almost–

The aircraft lurched unexpectedly to Nina’s side. She looked down to see a young, blond man in a Space Force uniform hanging from the skid. He interlaced his fingers around the strut. He wore a scruffy beard and a wild smile as he stared up at her. She saw his nametape read Campbell.

“Let go!” she yelled.

The man kept grinning at her and tried to swing his legs up on the skid.

“Nina! Get him off there!” Allen yelled.

“I’m trying, Debbie!”

“Shoot him, Nina!” LeBrock roared in her headphones.

She froze. “I can’t.”

They were a good fifty meters off the ground and moving across Newark Bay toward Bayonne. She looked up and saw Bronx Bomber in the distance firing across the harbor.

“It’s him or us!” Allen yelled and scrambled across the passenger cockpit.

Nina raised the pistol and scooted forward. The kid had one leg hooked on the skid, and he screamed, “You can’t leave me, bitch!”

She pointed the pistol at his chest and fired once. Shock appeared on his face for a split second, then he was gone, falling, tumbling to the water below. Nina didn’t watch. Eyes closed, she sobbed and felt Allen’s hand on her shoulders. The pistol disappeared from her hands, and she collapsed against her friend.

“Hey!” she heard LeBrock call. “Ladies, we’re deep in the shit. Stay focused, and we can get out of here.”

Nina opened her eyes and saw one of the Gimfa Destroyers stand up just offshore from the Cruise Port where Bronx Bomber stood facing northwest. The ugly thing raised its arms defiantly and charged from the southeast side of the port.

Bronx Bomber couldn’t see it.

Bronx Bomber

Bayonne

//Proximity warning. Proximity warning.//

The caution and warning system chimed, and Vic swung the Guardian’s head back to the right in time to see the Destroyer bearing down on him.

“Shit!”

He brought up both gauntlets and opened fire with the quad 20mm cannons on each. Like all the C-model Guardians, all he had to do was get the gauntlets in the right direction and lock onto the target with a reticle mounted inside his helmet and the targeting system did the rest. Economy of fire meant more rounds on target. As the Destroyer closed the distance, he’d be able to refine his targeting solution. The last thing he wanted was a physical, knock-down-drag-out fight with a Gimfa. He’d be on the losing end.

“Babe, Blaster 300. Inbound for danger close. Get ready.”

Vic walked the Guardian five steps backward to a wider, more stable portion of the pier. “Babe is ready.”

“Babe, Antietam, Destroyer Two closing on Liberty Island.”

Vic glanced to the north but couldn’t see the Gimfa. “Antietam, Babe. Steam south and let it come.”

“We’re going to harass it a bit more, Bomber. You’ve got your own problems. Let us take this one.”

He’s got a good point.

The Destroyer reared up and charged forward. Movement to Vic’s left caught his eye and the icons for Blaster 300 and 301 appeared as the XF-11C fighters roared into view. “Blaster 300, danger close. Firing.”

A few seconds later, multiple explosions erupted on the Destroyer’s armored skin and in the water around it. Vic’s targeting system went offline due to the water vapor and steam. As the breeze cooled the air, the system came back online, and he launched two of the unguided left shoulder rockets toward the beast’s elongated head, trying to hit the sensory organs.

First realized after the aliens landed in Africa, the aural sensory organs and the Gimfa’s eyes were soft targets for human weapons. The eyes were much harder to target, given their shape and orientation on the skull, but the ears, for lack of a better term, were much easier.

“Babe, Blaster 300. We’re going to hit it again from the south. When it turns our way, that’s your cue.”

I like the way you think.

Vic grunted and retracted the cannons on the right gauntlet. Once clear, he withdrew a ten-meter lance from Bronx Bomber’s right thigh armor and held it with the Guardian’s fist with the lance pointing down at the ground and tucked behind him.

Two hundred meters away, the Destroyer locked eyes with him and roared. Claws extended from its powerful arms as the alien stomped forward. For the first time, Vic saw the Golems swimming behind it, not unlike gangly dogs through the water.

“All stations, Babe. Golems in the water. I say again, Golems in the water. Antietam and Leyte Gulf, prepare depth charges and steam south. I want you clear of the area now!”

Lance in hand, Vic stepped Bronx Bomber forward and brought the left gauntlet to bear on the alien’s face, releasing a long burst of cannon fire. The Destroyer howled and thrashed forward. Claws met the gauntlet’s armored skin, and while they gouged the armor, the damage was minimal.

“Yeah, we fixed that shit after Japan fell, buddy!” Vic knocked the strike away and exposed the Gimfa’s relatively soft belly. He slashed out viciously with the lance, tearing a gaping wound in the alien’s side.

Another roar, and the Destroyer swiped with its opposite hand. This strike slammed into the Bronx Bomber’s right shoulder and tore the missile pod away like the twelve-ton assembly was nothing. Caution and warning lights flashed on the panel to his right, but Vic ignored them and the master caution alarm. He disconnected the power to the sparking, malfunctioning system, withdrew the lance with his opposite hand, and pushed the Gimfa toward the water.

“Here we go, Babe. Blaster 300, Fox Three.”

Vic was ready. Clear of the slashing Destroyer, he watched as the aircraft’s missiles streaked in toward their target. As it closed, the Gimfa’s highly perceptive sense located it, and it turned to swipe the missiles from the sky. Head and eyes fixed on the incoming target, the opening was there. Vic bounded Bronx Bomber forward five steps, raised the lance, and swung. He found the auditory canal just as a second missile from Blaster 301 impacted the Destroyer’s face and rammed the lance into the Gimfa’s head up to its hilt.

The Destroyer spasmed, and its slashing arms drooped to its sides. It was dead by the time it fell to the ground.

“Destroyer One is down,” he said thickly. “All stations, this is the Babe. Destroyer One is down. Blaster 300, route in toward Destroyer Two. Let’s stop them while the ships–”

To his left, toward the Statue of Liberty, a massive explosion filled the horizon where the Antietam had been. He waited three seconds for some type of call, but there was nothing. Now in two pieces–as if torn apart by massive unseen hands–the cruiser sank below the waves in heartbeats, surrounded by explosions as its missiles and other ammunition detonated.

“What the hell?” he blurted on the command channel. “Anyone see what happened?”

There were no responses, but he saw Destroyer Two stomping across the relatively small surface of Liberty Island. Inexplicably, it stopped and attacked the statue itself. The ancient copper and its stonework were no match for the ferocity of the attack. As the iconic statute tumbled toward the sea, Vic became aware someone on the radio was howling with anger.

It was him.

“Babe, Blaster 300. Rolling in. No survivors for the Antietam.”

“Much appreciated, 300. Draw them in closer, and we’ll run the same game.”

“Sounds good, Babe.” Yastrzemski replied. A moment later, she said, “Blaster 300, in hot.”

//Proximity warning. Proximity warning.//

Vic looked back to his own shore. Golems vaulted out of the water and ran across the pier toward him. Eyeing their three-meter bodies and long, clawed arms shining like daggers in the afternoon light, he’d never seen anything more frightening in his life.

Come on, you bastards. He brought up the gauntlets and opened fire.

“Babe, Redleg Six. Shot over, DPICM in effect, danger close. Over.”

A second later, the ground in front of him erupted with multiple impacts of artillery rounds. Dual-purpose improved conventional munitions delivered not only a high explosive charge, but the rounds were designed to burst into submunitions that could be either anti-tank or anti-personnel. Given their targets, Vic hoped the other munitions were anti-tank and capable of rendering the Gimfa to shreds.

From Bronx Bomber’s external speakers, he heard the Gimfa screams as the rounds fell and the submunitions cooked off in wide swathes. “Keep it coming, Redleg Six. Blaster 300, bring that Destroyer this way.”

“Working on it, Babe.”

Vic decided not to wait. “Leyte Gulf, get out of the harbor and pick up Redleg Six on your way. Redleg Six, I need a final protective fire on my position. All the DPICM you can give me. Blaster 300, give me everything you can on the Destroyer. Babe will hold the Destroyer. Are the final transports away?”

“Babe, Blaster 300. They are.”

There was something in her response that unsettled him. Risking a glance at Newark, he turned the Guardian’s head and zoomed in the optics as far as he could just to see a transport lifting off with a trail of people falling from the sides of its fuselage.

My God.

LifeFlight

Near Bayonne

On her headphones, Nina heard the 911 dispatcher from Newark connect. “LifeFlight, Newark 911 Center, multiple reports of fatalities at Newark Spaceport. National Command Authority wants to confirm Gimfa activity. Over.”

LeBrock replied, “Newark 911, negative on Gimfa presence at Newark when we took off a few minutes ago. Over.”

“LifeFlight, please return to Newark and investigate. Over.”

“We’re not landing.” LeBrock disregarded radio procedures. “The transports left a few hundred civilians who panicked. I’d guess your fatality reports are from them.”

Nina saw the last transport aircraft takeoff, though what appeared to be debris of some type both swirling around its landing gear and falling away. She gasped. “People are hanging off the transports!”

LeBrock banked the helicopter back toward the Spaceport. “Newark 911, you’ve got people falling off the exterior of the transports. That’s your fatalities. Law enforcement and fire broke down and fled. You have a full panic on your hands. LifeFlight, out.”

“What do we do?” Allen asked in a quiet voice.

“There’s nothing we can do over there,” LeBrock answered. “We need to swing south and get away from the city. I wouldn’t be surprised if Bronx Bomber deploys a nuke to give us time.”

“It has a nuke?” Allen asked.

“They all carry one,” LeBrock replied. “Your ex is the pilot, right, Nina?”

“Yeah.” She didn’t recognize the softness of her voice. “It’s a C-model so it carries a nuclear self-destruct device.”

“He gonna set it off?”

“I don’t know.” Nina shrugged. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I second that,” Allen said. “Fast as we can, Tammy.”

“Done.” Nina heard the pilot change frequencies. “Leyte Gulf, this is LifeFlight. We’re following your wake out of the harbor. Over.”

“LifeFlight, Leyte Gulf, stay right off the stern at the wave tops, and you’ll be out of our weapons envelope. Evacuation prep is underway. Loiter for rescue if necessary. Glad to have you along. When we’re clear of the harbor, you’ll be cleared to land. Over.”

“LifeFlight copies.” LeBrock replied. The helicopter buffeted through a fresh wave of artillery shockwaves from the piers not more than two thousand meters away. “Hang on, ladies!”

Bronx Bomber

Bayonne

“Babe, Redleg Six. We’ve got boats in the water and are preparing to evacuate. You’ve got three salvos left. Where do you want ‘em? Over.”

“Redleg Six, target my position. As soon as you give a shot call, I’ll move north to the next pier. Fire and get the hell out of there.”

“Babe, copy all. Shot in ten seconds. Give ‘em hell, sir.”

“Thanks to you, we will.” Vic swept his gauntlets toward the Golems closing in on the shoreline, intending to piss them off and draw them in. He almost didn’t hear the call.

“Babe, shot. Over.”

“Shot, out!” he replied and turned the Guardian north. He jogged, picking up speed, to the side of the southern pier and then leapt into the water. Klaxons rang out as the leaks Master Chief Key mentioned allowed water into the legs. The Guardian’s reactor struggled to maintain power as the leg became heavier. The eighth of a mile distance, even with the Guardian’s longer legs, was a slog.

“Splash, over.”

Vic didn’t waste a glance. With his eyes on the approaching Destroyer from the north, he reached the other pier and used the Babe’s arms to hoist it from the water. Atop the pier, he strode forward. Each step felt lighter as the water in the lower legs drained through the very holes it had entered.

He looked south toward his previous position and saw the Golems climbing the pier and rushing inland as the second barrage of artillery tore them to shreds. The third salvo fell ten seconds later, and through the dust and debris, he heard the Golems scream as one. They attacked directly west, heading for the Spaceport across Newark Bay.

“This is Babe activating final protective fire on Newark.” He engaged the left shoulder missile rack and fired his next to last salvo. Ammunition warnings for the left gauntlet appeared. There wasn’t going to be a resupply. He had what he had, and it needed to be enough. “Blaster 300, could use some assistance down here.”

“Babe, I’ve got two squadrons inbound. They’ll hit the Golems. Secure your post and be ready for Destroyer Two. We got this.”

Yes, ma’am. Vic grinned, but didn’t say anything over the radio. He didn’t have to. They’d gotten the last of the transports away from Newark and were in the process of evacuating Fort Hamilton. They’d lost the Antietam with all hands, but the Leyte Gulf had gotten away. Aside from the jets overhead, there was a helicopter flying low and fast off the stern of the missile cruiser beyond the wreckage of the Verrazano Bridge. A LifeFlight.

Nina.

He chuckled. “At least you got out, Scarpetti. Almost makes this shit worth it.”

He didn’t add the rest. When he’d climbed back into the Babe, he knew he wasn’t making it to a Lifeboat. He could hold the ground as long as he could so others might live, and that was good enough for him.

//Ammunition warning–gauntlets.//

Vic disengaged the caution and warning system completely. The next few minutes would make everything in the cockpit light up, and he didn’t need to hear about it. For all the time he’d piloted the Guardian, he liked to believe he and the machine were in sync with each other. Distraction wasn’t going to help anything.

He estimated Destroyer Two, with another throng of Golems swimming behind, was two minutes out. With his targeting reticle, he sighted on the main target’s face and fired the final salvo from the left shoulder missile rack. As the missiles streaked away, he ejected the rack from the Guardian and let it tumble to the pier below. Each gauntlet had less than 2,000 rounds of ammunition remaining. Golems appeared in the water between the piers to his left. He turned and sprayed the closest, but held his fire as much as he could. The Golems remained undeterred and swam forward, intent on attacking him from below.

Between a Destroyer and a few thousand Golems. Low ammo. Not much choice.

He looked at the self-destruct panel which would allow the Bronx Bomber’s nuclear reactor to fail. The additional low-yield nuclear payload on the Babe’s back, where the numeral 3 had been painted at his request, would take out everything in a five-mile radius–from his position to Fort Hamilton.

“Any station, this is the Babe. Status of evacuation at Fort Hamilton. Over.”

“Babe, this is the Leyte Gulf. We’re getting the boats aboard now.”

He checked the Destroyer’s position. “Let me know the minute you’re loaded and then haul ass. When you’re clear, I’m initiating nuclear protocols.”

“Copy, Babe. Two minutes, tops.”

//Proximity warning.//

Vic spun the Guardian away from the attacking Golems and lowered the gauntlets to spray the pier below. Golems by the dozens came up from the water.

I ain’t got two minutes.

//Left gauntlet ammunition depleted.//

He stopped firing with the right gauntlet and drew the lance, placed it into his left fist, and then resumed firing. The lance wasn’t a great weapon for slashing, but he struck down a few Golems with each ungraceful swing.

//Right gauntlet ammunition depleted.//

“Leyte Gulf? You got an update?”

“We’re loaded. Flank speed now to the south. LifeFlight in route. Over.”

“LifeFlight?”

A new voice entered the frequency. “Bronx Bomber, LifeFlight TK. Execute your protocol and use the upper hatch. We’ll be overhead in sixty seconds.”

“Unable. I’ve got a Destroyer bearing down on me.”

Something shot past his left side and he recognized it with a flash of terror.

Flyers!

Vic touched the panel and initiated the self-destruct sequence. There were two options: instant detonation or ten-minute delay. His hand hesitated on the screen over the instant button.

“Babe, we’ve got hostiles in the air. Do what you gotta do. We’ll cover you,” he heard Yazstremski call. There were friendlies nearby, who were approaching to try and save his ass. There wasn’t a decision to make after all. He touched delay.

“All stations, Bronx Bomber is offline. Six hundred seconds to detonation. Get clear. Out.”

With the pull of a yellow and black corded handle, the upper emergency hatch over the cockpit flew away. Vic unstrapped and removed his feet from the restraints. He reached up for the bottom rungs of the ladder and pulled himself up. The ten-foot climb flew by faster than any evacuation exercise. At the top, he paused and scanned in all directions for Flyers. Seeing none, he climbed up and saw the approaching helicopter less than ten feet above the water as it shot toward him. The aircraft climbed, almost seemed to pivot as it did, and hovered next to the head a few seconds later. The door was open, and he saw Nina Scarpetti and another woman standing in the door. He’d never seen a pilot maneuver a helicopter in such a way, but within seconds, he stepped onto the skid, grabbed the women’s hands, and stepped aboard. He flopped onto the patient litter as the door slid shut, and the helicopter fell away from the Babe. He watched it for a moment.

The other woman in the back handed him a headset. He slipped it on. “Hey, thanks.”

“Hang on,” the pilot said. “We gotta get to–”

“LifeFlight, Flyer closing on you. Blaster 300 rolling in.”

The helicopter dove for the water and accelerated hard enough to toss him backward to the cockpit wall. “Whoa!”

Nina smiled at him, but said nothing. She glanced outside, and her mouth opened. “Right side!”

Vic turned and saw the Flyer bearing down on them. To its left, diving in from above, was an XF-11C. In an unreal microsecond, Vic saw the 300 painted on its nose before it slammed into the alien and detonated. The helicopter banked left and swung out over the harbor, racing southwest as the debris plunged into the water.

Nina grabbed his hand. “You okay?”

“No.” Vic shook his head. Nausea bubbled up in his gut, and he swallowed it down. Yazstremski, and so many others, gave their lives so others might live. Whether the Lifeboats would be enough to save humanity or not, he didn’t know. He grabbed Nina’s hand, and she didn’t flinch. Instead, he felt a squeeze.

“You’re bleeding again,” she said. “Debbie? Hand me the kit?”

“Better yet, lie down, Major,” the other woman said. Vic did as he was told without a word, and he caught Nina smiling at him.

“Time to detonation?” he asked.

“Just over three minutes,” the pilot said over her shoulder. “We’re approaching the Leyte Gulf now.”

By the time the skid’s touched down, they’d reapplied a liquid bandage to his head. The doors opened, and several uniformed crewmen were there. They collected the crew and rushed them over the side of the landing platform and down into a hatch. Vic saw them swing it closed.

The ship’s loudspeaker crackled to life. “This is the Captain. Brace for impact!”

Later, in the small sick bay, the corpsmen sewed up the gash on his forehead. Cradling a cup of coffee, Vic noticed his hands were calm unlike the rest of him. He couldn’t stop thinking about Linda Yazstremski, among others. He took a sip and placed the cup on a small table before leaning back and closing his eyes. Vic hadn’t prayed since childhood, and he wasn’t sure what to ask for.

“Thank you for letting me live.”

“You’re welcome.” Nina laughed, suddenly at his side.

He opened his eyes as she took his hand. “Thank you, too.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

“Why?”

“Apparently the President pulled some strings, and my whole crew will be joining you.”

He shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“We all have seats on a Lifeboat bound for Mars.” She shrugged and looked away wistfully. Her lower lip quivered, then she looked at him again. “I thought we might try again. New planet. New relationship.”

He chuckled. That there were likely no annoying acquaintances, no overbearing family members, and new friends to be made increased their chances of success. Vic looked up into her face for a long moment. He’d always liked her smile.

“Mars, huh?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “Is that alright with you?”

“I don’t think I have much choice.”

She grinned. “You don’t. They’re calling you the hero of New York.”

The smile slid off his face. “I ain’t no hero, Nina. The real heroes didn’t make it out.”

“You’re right,” she said, leaning forward until they were face-to-face. “Those who did owe it to the fallen to live life to the fullest. Whatever and wherever it might be.”

He nodded. “I like that.”

“Not my words. The President said them a little while ago. The full evacuation is on. We can’t save the Earth.”

“Yet,” he said. “We can’t save the Earth yet. Something tells me we will.”

She squinted at him, scrunching her face as she did. “That mean you’re getting back into a Guardian?”

Who was he kidding? “First chance I get.”

10

ONCE A TITAN MAGE

BY JACOB HOLO

Dirk Claveon stood at the threshold of his home, every fiber of his being tense and alert, long-barreled void rifle in his hands.

He and his wife had built the humble log cabin a decade ago, had spent weeks at the time traveling the untamed countryside for the perfect spot, far from the constant bustle of Endpoint City. They’d picked this hill, which rose like an emerald-encrusted mound from the stony roots of the Jawline, a range of mountains with sharp, regular peaks that lived up to its namesake. Their frost-bitten tips rose prominently to the north, much of their slopes covered in old growth forests.

Lorelei loved nature, even the parts that sometimes tried to kill them this far from civilization. The signs of her affection enveloped the house: flowering vines crept up trellis walls, raspberry and blueberry bushes filled the many garden boxes alongside orderly plots of tomatoes, peppers, and so much more.

Dirk loved her roses the most. They reminded him of her hair. Dark, red, and full. Like a smoldering flame that refused to be quenched.

Someone had trampled through her garden.

Not a beast, but a man.

No, he corrected, noting the signs. Men. At least three of them.

The door creaked back and forth, knocking against the lower doorjamb from a sudden gust of wind. The wood around the lock had been reduced to splinters, and one hinge had been pulled out partially so that the door sat at a slight angle.

A letter had been nailed to the door and a lock of rich, red hair taped to the bottom.

Dirk tore the letter free and read it:

We have your wife.

No harm will come to her as long as you follow these instructions.

Bring the crystal hexagon to the cliff edge on the south side of the Grand Canine.

You have until sunrise tomorrow to comply.

Come alone or she dies.

Wait too long and she dies.

Try anything stupid and she dies.

You get the point.

The letter was signed “You Know Who.”

Dirk ran his fingertips across the lock of hair, knew it to be hers by touch alone, and then crumpled the paper between two large, rough hands. Scorching rage flared within him, fury the likes of which he’d not felt in a decade, though not a shred of the burning emotion reached his face. His visage remained stone-like, if not exactly calm.

Dirk pulled the door aside and entered the house. Every drawer had been opened and rifled through, their contents sometimes spilled across the floor. He swept through the handful of rooms until he came to the kitchen, his eye catching the key anomalies: the fallen chair, the glass shattered on the hardwood floor, the half-finished omelet on the table.

And the bloody knife.

He dropped to a knee and picked up the utensil. It was one of Lorelei’s cooking knives. Not a very good weapon, but in the desperation of the moment…

She must have cut one of them as they grabbed her. Not a deep cut, judging by the amount of blood, but I bet it hurts like the hells.

But then what? What happened next?

They would have subdued her somehow.

They would have hurt her.

He clenched his fist around the knife’s handle until his knuckles turned white, then forced himself to take a long, slow breath.

He dropped the blade and climbed to his feet, raw emotions seething invisibly beneath his skin. He stepped into the bathroom, poured water from a porcelain pitcher into the wash basin, and then splashed his face.

He stared into the mirror.

His was a rugged face. Dark eyes stared out from underneath a weathered brow, his strong jaw partially hidden by a trim, salt-and-pepper beard. Splotches of gray hair retreated back from his temples. Every time he looked into the mirror, he found more signs of aging.

He would have looked in the mirror less these days, but Lorelei preferred a neat and orderly beard. “Not too smooth, and not too prickly. Just right for kissing,” she would say. Who was he to deny the love of his life such a simple pleasure?

Dirk splashed his face a second time, and then a third. Water cooled his skin and dribbled down his beard, but the furious, almost painful fire in his chest blazed on.

“You Know Who…”

Yes, he knew who had taken Lorelei. He understood the powerful greed that had led them to violate his home and kidnap his wife. They were the Kragg Brothers–Estan and Rowan–leaders of the Stone Golem Mercenary Company, and they’d made their interest in the crystal hexagon clear.

He’d told them they were mistaken, that the artifact had been lost over a decade ago.

The problem was he did have it.

Not here. Not in the house.

But hidden close by.

He wouldn’t need much time to retrieve it.

Lorelei didn’t know where he’d stashed the hexagon (along with the other relic from his past) and that was perhaps a small comfort. She couldn’t divulge knowledge she didn’t possess, and the Kraggs seemed to realize this as well.

Dirk knew what was required of him now.

The “what” was never the question. Not for an instant. Only the “how” remained to be solved.

The “how” would be difficult.

He would need help.

This realization served to focus his mind, and that sliver of clarity tempered his rage. He headed into the bedroom, pulled the emergency radio out from under the bed, and set it on the nightstand.

Craftier villains would have taken the radio. Or at least sabotaged it.

He slotted a void cartridge into the machine and switched it on. It was already keyed to the correct channel.

“Endpoint Outskirts Radio Services,” replied a pleasant, if bored woman. “How may I help you?”

“I have a message I need delivered to an airship, the Indigo Gryphon. It’s for Chief Engineer Sevas Lazare.”

“Sevas…Lazare…” A pencil scratched audibly across paper. “And what is the message, sir?”

“Tell him Dirk Claveon is calling in that favor.”

The two mercenaries escorted Lorelei into the stately, wood-paneled office, where Estan Kragg sat behind his expansive desk. He was a large man, and not all of that was muscle anymore, judging by the bulge of his belly and the roundness in his cheeks. He wore a tan uniform similar to those of his troops, but with gold bars on either side of his high collar. The curved window at his back provided a wide view of the Jawline under a hot, clear sky.

Estan smiled and rose.

“Ah, the lovely Mrs. Claveon, in the flesh. Welcome to the airship Sky Fort.” He frowned. “Didn’t I send out three of you lads?”

“Urdlo’s with Doc, sir. He’s getting his face stitched up.”

“I see.” Estan sighed like a disappointed parent. “Your doing, I assume?”

“You assume correctly,” Lorelei replied, standing tall before the mercenary leader, her vivid gray eyes never flinching away, cuffed hands behind her back.

Lorelei possessed a firm and athletic figure, imbued with the kind of beauty that only grew richer with age. Yes, hints of wrinkles crept from the corners of her eyes and mouth, and a streak of white marred her long waves of deep auburn, but those imperfections only served to enhance the elegant tapestry of her beauty.

“There was no need for violence, you know,” Estan chided.

“No. There wasn’t.”

“This is all your husband’s fault. If he hadn’t insisted on lying to us about the hexagon, we could have resolved this matter amicably and been on our way. As it stands now, well…”

“I saw the letter your thugs nailed to the door. What were you thinking?”

“No harm will come to you so long as we get what we want. You have my word.”

She snorted out a laugh.

“There’s no need to be frightened, my dear.”

“Do I look frightened?”

“Hmm.” Estan regarded her more carefully. “No, I suppose you don’t.”

“It’s you who should be afraid.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve started?”

“I have a pretty good notion.”

“No,” Lorelei said firmly. “You don’t. Otherwise, you’d take your airship and fly as far away from here as you can.”

Estan chuckled softly.

“Don’t you know who he is?” she asked. “Who he used to be?”

“We have some idea. How do you think we learned about the hexagon?”

“Clearly, you don’t know enough.”

“My dear, regardless of how formidable you think your husband is, how capable he used to be, he’s just one man. In case you failed to notice, the Stone Golems have rigs, an airship, and two–count them, two–titans! What’s one man going to do against that?”

“It won’t be enough.”

Estan sighed and shook his head. “Once again, you and your husband fail to see reason.”

“Do you know why you’re doomed?”

“Feel free to enlighten me.”

“It’s because you’ve already made the worst mistake possible.”

“And what might that be?”

Lorelei flashed a sinister smile. “You let him know where to find you.”

Twig watched the Claveon house through a pair of binoculars.

He lay prone atop a nearby hill, this one slightly higher than the cottage and closer to the Jawline, himself concealed within its tall grass. His camouflaged fatigues blended well with the patchwork of greens and browns. A beetle with an iridescent shell crawled across his left hand, but he didn’t move, didn’t flinch, from its tickling passage. He let himself remain one more part of the terrain, indistinguishable from the rise.

Twig was many things, and patient was one of them.

Observant was another.

Those two traits had served him well in his three years of service with the Stone Golems.

He waited now, patiently, ever alert to his environment as he swept the binoculars across the house.

The door swung open, and Dirk stepped out, rifle and a small leather satchel slung over his shoulder, a knife sheathed at his waist, and a small metal cylinder in one hand. A flashlight, perhaps? The sun burned down on them from a high vantage in a clear, bright sky. Why would he need that?

The big man stopped outside the house and looked around as the broken door creaked behind him, his rough face a mask of cold concentration. He eyes swept over his surroundings, even flirted across Twig’s position, but the mercenary wasn’t worried. He was too well hidden by the grass. Dirk must have suspected someone had been left behind to keep an eye on him, but his search would prove fruitless.

Dirk didn’t know, couldn’t know, that Twig had spent the last week casing the house, observing and recording the couple’s rhythms and habits. In a sense, Twig was the one most responsible for Lorelei’s smooth capture, even if Urdlo had led the actual grab. Twig permitted himself a shallow smile at the thought. Surely, the Kraggs would reward him handsomely once they had the hexagon in hand.

Eventually, Dirk stepped away from the door and followed a well-worn path down the hill and around behind it. Twig followed the big man’s movements, losing him for a minute as he passed along the far side of the hill, then caught sight of him when he emerged by a trickling creek, its waters cool and clean from fresh mountain runoff.

Dirk followed the creek into the cleft between two hills and vanished once more.

Twig rose to a crouch and retreated back into the grass. He took one of several paths he’d scouted out over the past week, racing as fast as he dared. His course took him in a wide arc, which kept him clear of his quarry, but also meant he had more ground to cover. The hilly terrain and smattering of trees provided plenty of cover, though, and he slowed as he mounted another rise, then dropped to the ground and crawled forward.

His breaths came quick and deep as he scanned his surroundings and eventually spotted Dirk once more. The creek had led him to a serpentine path cut by an ancient, stronger flow of water. Embankments rose to either side of the man, almost to his head, and roots protruded from the walls of dirt and stone. He pushed a large root aside and pressed on.

Twig traced the burbling stream ahead of Dirk and eventually landed upon a narrow cave mouth, itself partially concealed by hanging vines. The mercenary knew about the cave already; he’d scouted it earlier and had wondered at the time if Dirk had stashed the crystal hexagon somewhere inside.

Seems I was right, he thought with a grin. Now the flashlight makes sense.

Twig had ventured into the cave once, but had turned back when he realized how large–and in some areas, how treacherous–the interior was. It would take a concerted effort with good spelunking equipment to explore a cave system of its size and complexity, and even then, a relic as small as the hexagon would be easy to miss.

No, the Kraggs were right. They needed to pressure Dirk into revealing the hexagon’s location.

At least now I know roughly where it is, Twig thought. He considered radioing the Sky Fort with this information, but decided to hold off. He wasn’t due to check in for a few hours.

Dirk reached the cave mouth. He pushed the hanging vines aside and disappeared inside.

Twig watched the entrance through his binoculars, his body motionless but mind whirling with possibilities. Dirk had entered the cave to retrieve the hidden hexagon; he was certain of this now.

What if…he considered. What if I’m the one who brings back the hexagon? What if I take it from Dirk? Ambush him as he leaves the cave? It’ll be easy. He doesn’t know I’m here. Just one shot in the back, and it’s all over.

Ah, but there’s a problem. I only brought a pistol with me. I’ll need to get closer. Perhaps set up my ambush near the mouth. Maybe even inside.

Hmm…

Is it worth the risk?

Twig pondered these thoughts, the allure of the hexagon prominent in his mind.

Slowly, cautiously, he rose and began a slow, scuttling trek down the back of the rise, then made his way around and over to the cave mouth. Cool air wheezed past like the ethereal exhale of a long-dormant beast.

He peeked inside through the vines.

A distant light flashed across the far, rocky wall.

Good, he thought. Dirk is moving deeper into the cave. Now’s my chance.

Twig drew his void pistol and eased his way inside. He crept forward until he spotted a nice, hollowed recess in the wall. Deep enough to conceal him from the light at the cave mouth, but with clear enough lines of sight for him to easily spot Dirk when he returned.

Twig pressed his back into the recess and waited, pistol held tight and ready against his chest.

That light continued to dance over the far wall, often swinging up to catch the slick cones of mighty stalactites. But as Twig continued to watch, something about the light struck him as odd. He’d expected Dirk to have ventured deeper into the cave by now, for the light to dim and vanish. But it was as strong as it had been when Twig entered.

Had Dirk hidden the hexagon this close to the entrance? If so, why was that light swaying so much?

Maybe he needs to dig it out? Twig wondered, but then frowned, unsatisfied with his own reasoning.

The light splashed across the ceiling with strange regularity, which was another oddity. At first, Twig had assumed this was related to the cadence of Dirk’s gait, but now he wasn’t so sure. If Dirk had been heading somewhere, the light would have changed positions. Shone from a different angle, reflected at different intensities.

But it was all strangely static.

He watched the light for long minutes.

The wide oval calmed down, settling for a while before something stirred it up once more.

But it never dimmed.

What is Dirk doing?

Twig’s first instinct was to remain exactly where he was, to wait out his quarry at the mouth. But a cave system such as this could have more than one entrance, and he’d come this far. Why not a little further?

He needed to put his eyes on Dirk.

Twig eased out of the recess, as quiet as a breath, and crept forward. A shelf of rock blocked his view, and so he worked his way around it, following the wide arc of the outer wall, one slow, careful step at a time.

And then he saw it. Icy fear danced up his spine.

The flashlight hung from a rope tied to the lip of that rocky shelf. The breeze blew across it, and it rocked back and forth, spraying light at random.

Dirk was nowhere to be found.

I need to get out of here! Twig thought urgently.

He turned to leave when he heard the crunch of stones from behind him. He started to raise his pistol, but a heavy hand covered his mouth, and a sharp, sudden force pierced his back.

Twig gasped, eyes wide with panic and pain.

Paralytic shocks rippled through his body, and he convulsed. The pistol fell from his twitching fingers, and his mouth began to foam. The ten-inch blade Dirk had buried in his back was carved from the horn of a storm drake. Not only was the blade razor sharp, but the bone core retained some of the beast’s magic, leaving its victims shocked and vulnerable.

But none of this mattered because Twig was as good as dead.

Dirk had pierced his heart with the first thrust.

Dirk spent the next hour winding his way through the cavern, the flashlight’s lonely glow his only companion. Finally, he arrived at his destination and switched the light off.

A slit in the high, rocky ceiling cast a sliver illumination across the heavy, gray tarp, which covered a huge, indistinct shape. If one knew what to look for, the mound gave the impression of a two-story-tall giant reclining against the back wall, legs thrust out lazily and head lulling to one side.

Dirk circled the gray shape and unfastened a series of buckles, loosening belts that connected the tarp to metal spikes hammered into the stone. He grabbed one end of the tarp and pulled.

The tarp floated free with surprising ease, and light splashed across Titan Harbinger for the first time in a decade.

The mech was just as he remembered it: a black humanoid in angular armor with crystalline matter catalysts housed in each forearm. Unlike most titans, Harbinger was completely unadorned with flourishes. Its lines were sleek, simple, and utilitarian.

Except for the battle damage.

One of the greaves was gone, exposing the dense strands of dark artificial muscles over the endoskeletal tibia. The slats in the left shoulder louver were bent out of shape, and a crisscross of deep slashes marred the chest. Divots, scorch marks, and gouges covered much of the armor.

Dirk collected the tarp off to the side and then scaled up to the titan’s chest, which was split down the middle, one half cracked open. He grabbed an inset handhold and heaved the hatch aside.

The cockpit was a barren, cylindrical chamber large enough for one person to stand within, its walls a grid of square panels. A black, formfitting mage suit sat neatly folded at the bottom. He knelt inside, put a finger on the back bottom panel, counted up five, counted three to the right, then unscrewed the panel he’d landed on.

The hardware for the titan’s reflex link had been removed from behind this one slot, and in its place sat a brilliant crystalline hexagon as large as his palm. Even in the scant light, it seemed to burn with multihued fire. Dirk took the artifact, stuffed it in his leather satchel, then resealed the cockpit.

He scaled the titan’s shoulders and then freeclimbed the rest of the way up to the high slash through the chamber’s roof. He pulled himself up out of the cave and glanced around at the clearing. Slender, white-barked trees ringed the spot, their leaves a mix of greens and teals. He found a nearby log covered in moss, its wood soft with rot.

He sat down and waited.

Less than an hour later, a carriage came into view, pulled by four azure elks. Crates had been piled atop the roof, and more crates sat heavily on the carriage’s rear rack.

Dirk stood up, the hunting rifle resting in his hands.

The side door opened, and pale, young man in a jumpsuit stepped out, balancing his slender form with a forearm crutch. He pushed a pair of goggles up into his dark, wild hair and surveyed his surroundings. Three other people, also clad in jumpsuits, followed him out of the carriage. The frail man with the messy hair said a quick word to his companions, then made his way toward Dirk with some effort.

The two men stood across from each other. Dirk towered over the younger man, and yet both seemed to exude auras of great stature.

“Dirk,” the newcomer said, his tone formal.

“Sevas.”

“I normally don’t make house calls, you know.”

“I know.”

Sevas glanced around, leaning on his crutch.

“Where’s Lorelei?”

Dirk didn’t say anything. His face was as permanent as the slopes of the Jawline.

“I see.” Sevas sighed and nodded. “I feared it might be something like that.”

Dirk returned to the log and sat down.

Sevas, taking the gesture for the invitation it was, joined him.

“They took her,” Dirk said simply.

“You’ll need to be more specific than that. There are a lot of possible ‘theys’ when you’re involved.”

“The Stone Golems.”

“The…” Sevas bowed his head in thought. “Ah, I’ve heard of them. What a nasty outfit. Little better than brigands. Headed by Estan and Rowan Kragg, both of them accomplished titan mages. Pilots of Unbreakable Vanguard and Hysteric Pugilist, if my memory serves.”

“It normally does. What can you tell me about their titans?”

“Vanguard is an energy titan configured for long-ranged beam combat. Pugilist is a close-in gravity brawler, and with its flight unit, enjoys a surprising amount of mobility. Neither mage–nor their titans–should be underestimated.”

Dirk only nodded.

“They took Lorelei?”

“They did.”

“What do they want?”

Dirk retrieved the crystal hexagon from his satchel and placed it on the log between them.

A gasp came from the direction of the carriage, followed by a low but urgent conversation. Sevas silenced his companions with a quick, stern glare. He then turned his attention to the hexagon.

“May I?” he asked.

“You may.”

Sevas retrieved a loupe from his jumpsuit and held up the hexagon to examine it.

“Exquisite. The beauty of a lost era. I never would have guessed this one survived.”

“Someone figured it out.”

“Naturally.” Sevas set the hexagon down and faced the other man. “Have you considered just giving them what they want?”

Dirk said nothing, his face as expressionless as ever, even though flames raged behind his eyes.

“Never mind,” Sevas said with a headshake. “It was silly of me to ask.”

“I’ll need your help.”

“Of course, you will. Should I assume Titan Harbinger is nearby?”

“I stored it in the cave beneath us.” Dirk gestured to the hole in the ground.

Sevas rose a little off the log and craned his neck, then sat back down.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m not climbing down that.”

“There’s an easier entrance not far from here. I blocked it with a cave-in, but between your team and my titan, we won’t have any trouble clearing it.”

“How much work does Harbinger need?”

“Not much, I think. Just enough to get it refueled, rearmed, and running smoothly. Plus one more task.”

“Which is?”

Dirk placed a finger atop the hexagon. “Use this to upgrade the right arm’s matter catalyst.”

“Are you sure about that?” Sevas tapped the Precursor relic. “This isn’t some trinket we’re talking about here. It’s a vanishingly rare universal enhancer, capable of bypassing all the upgrade requirements to shift a catalyst up one tier. But it can only be used once. Once it’s gone, you’re committed.”

Dirk looked at the other man wordlessly.

Sevas shook his head. “Why do I even bother? Once a titan mage, always a titan mage. Reckless violence isn’t the only way to solve problems.”

“Will you help me?”

“What kind of question is that?” he replied, somewhat indignantly. “Sevastyan Lazare pays his debts.” He rose to his feet with a strained groan. “Now. Let’s get that titan of yours fixed up.”

“We may have a problem,” Rowan Kragg said, standing in the office doorway.

Estan huffed out a breath and set his knife and fork down. He looked up from his steak.

Rowan was the lesser of the two brothers in many ways. He was the younger of the two, his lean build had yet to accumulate fat the way Estan had, and he lacked his older brother’s cunning.

He wasn’t stupid; Estan wouldn’t have gone into business with him if he’d been a liability, but Rowan always seemed to lag a few steps behind his older brother when it came to the finer details of running a mercenary business.

“What sort of problem?” Estan asked.

Rowan’s eyes darted to Lorelei, who sat cuffed to one of the chairs. Her eyes were fierce and defiant.

“Go on,” Estan said. “It doesn’t matter if she listens in. What’s she going to do about it anyway? Glare at us?”

“It’s Twig.”

“What about him?”

“He’s an hour overdue for his check-in.”

“Hmm.” Estan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Could be he’s preoccupied with watching Mister Claveon.”

“Could be.”

“You don’t sound convinced this is nothing.”

“Are you? It’s rare for Twig to not radio in on time.”

Estan glanced over at Lorelei, who watched him with a predatory gaze.

“We should send someone out to check on him,” Rowan said.

“I suppose we should. How’s Urdlo?”

“Unhappy.”

“Well, he can suck it up and make himself useful. Send his team out to see if Twig’s all right.”

“Just the three of them?”

“Just.”

“Rigs or no?”

“They can suit up. We know Mister Claveon has that hunting rifle. No need for us to take unnecessary risks.”

“If you’re that concerned, then maybe I should head out in Hysteric–”

“Let’s not blow this out of proportion.” Estan waved the issue aside. “Urdlo should be more than enough.”

Rowan glanced at Lorelei. A slim, knowing smile crept onto her face.

“I hope you’re right,” he replied, then headed out the door.

Urdlo was in a terrible mood, and the fact that he now had to tromp down to the Claveon cabin this late in the day only served to foul his mood even more.

His cheek smarted from where that bitch had cut him, and the stitches sang with new pain with each jarring step. Doc had only applied the lightest dab of topical anesthetic, and the drugs had worn off hours ago, leaving him to grit his teeth and suffer through it. The bandage was already soaked with enough blood to turn faintly pink.

What a pain in my ass! he thought as he raced through the countryside, his behind almost as sore as his face from the lurching gait of his rig.

His rig was no titan. It stood only a single story tall, more magitek power armor than a true mech. His arms and legs fitted down its exaggerated limbs to provide the control inputs, and his scowling face stood out within the bubble helmet. A heavy cylinder hung behind the suit like a massive backpack, filled with the pressurized void essence the rig drank for fuel.

Lenk and Washam followed in their own rigs, each of them armed with void cannons.

He took a bounding leap off a ledge, landed heavily in the shallow dip between hills, and then raced up the slope.

“Wait up!” Lenk shouted. “We’re falling behind!”

“Move it or lose it, you two!” Urdlo radioed back. “I plan to be back before sunset. You can sniff the daisies on your own time.”

“And you can sniff my ass, for all I care!”

“Gentlemen,” Washam said dryly. “Let’s at least try to keep things professional.”

“You can be professional by keeping pace,” Urdlo replied.

He crested the hill and spotted the log cabin and its girdle of lush gardens. The cut in his cheek ached, and he snarled, half-tempted to loose a shot or two at the picturesque–and very flammable–abode. He would have loved to give that pretty face of hers a scar to match his, but the Kraggs wouldn’t tolerate him striking Dirk’s woman, no matter how bad she’d slashed his face.

Cutting her was out of the question.

Which narrowed Urdlo’s options for the comeuppance he craved.

Fortunately, there were a lot of ways a crafty fellow like him could get even while also following every order to the letter.

Maybe after we have the hexagon I’ll pay the two lovebirds a visit, he thought. And if they happen to be asleep when I set fire to the place, well, accidents do happen.

“Either of you see Twig?” Urdlo asked.

“Not so much as a fart,” Lenk said.

Washam sighed. “That’s a negative.”

“Then spread out and search for him.”

The two rigs tromped off in opposite directions, rounding the hill.

Urdlo walked up to the house, pulled back the door, and peeked inside.

“You in there, Twig?” he asked through his external speaker. “No?”

He slammed the door shut and joined up with Washam.

“Any sign of him?”

“Nothing so far.”

“Where in the hells could that loser–”

“Oh, shit!” Lenk cried. “Titan! TITAN!”

Urdlo spun around to find Lenk racing toward them, the limbs of his rig flailing like mad.

An angular, night-black titan rounded the hill, massive harpoon in one hand, heavy loop of chain dangling from the thick shaft. The titan launched the harpoon with a sharp overhand throw, and it skewered Lenk, pinning his rig to the ground. He screamed in agony.

The titan jerked back on the chain, and the harpoon came loose from the ground, rig still impaled. Both flew through the air together, the harpoon’s tip slick with blood, and the titan caught its weapon deftly by the shaft.

“Help me!” Lenk squealed. “HELP!”

The titan grabbed the top of Lenk’s rig and pulled the harpoon out of him. A horrid, gurgling exhale crackled over the radio, telling Urdlo that Lenk had felt all of that. The titan held Lenk’s rig out, his legs kicking impotently.

And then it began to squeeze.

The helmet shattered.

Lenk cried out one last time—

—and fell silent.

Blood oozed out between the titan’s huge fingers.

“Open fire!” Urdlo shouted.

Void blasts plinked and zinged off the titan’s thick armor. It tossed the broken rig, bowling Urdlo over, and then threw the harpoon once more, impaling Washam against a tree.

Urdlo rolled his rig onto its belly and looked up.

The titan dropped the harpoon’s chain and marched toward him, almost casually, each step thumping up through Urdlo’s stomach. Swiftmetal poured out of a port built into the titan’s wrist. Black smoke exhaled from the titan’s shoulder louvers, and the stream of thick mercury coalesced into a giant, bladed boomerang.

Urdlo rose to his feet and ran for it.

The titan coiled its arm back and launched the boomerang. It whistled through the air like a blurring disk of death.

Urdlo barely felt it when the whirling edge whispered through his neck.

Zamir paced along his patrol route outside the Sky Fort, bored and irritated. He kicked a pebble, which skipped along the dry earth until it disappeared into the surrounding woods. It seemed every time the bosses needed a warm body to walk around in a big circle, he got picked. It was so frustrating!

What’s even the point this time? he thought as he continued on.

The Sky Fort sat in a wide, oval clearing with one side close to a steep drop down to a canyon full of shattered rocks and frigid mountain water. An arc of trees formed the other boundary for the clearing, soil transitioning into slate to keep the vegetation at bay. But the forest beyond was so old and dense, there was almost no point to patrolling the perimeter. Tree trunks as thick as a titan towered at least ten stories high, and their dense canopies shrouded the interior in darkness.

Zamir shined his flashlight through a gap in the trunks. He thought he caught the golden glint of a feral dog’s eyes, but it bolted quickly.

Too bad, he thought, adjusting the strap of his rifle. I could have used the target practice.

He rummaged in his pockets as he walked, found a crushed joint beneath his lighter, and pulled out both. He stuck the joint in his mouth, flicked the lighter on, and drew a breath through the smooshed cigarette.

The end glowed red, and soothing warmth spread through his chest. Everything became just a little bit lighter, and he found himself smiling as his worries melted away.

He pondered once more why he kept landing this crap detail, but gave up after a few minutes of fruitless thought. He couldn’t come up with a single reason why the bosses continued to stick him with boring guard duty.

Life was unfair like that sometimes.

But he found himself not caring.

He puffed out a “medicinal” smoke ring then took another deep drag. The end of the cigarette turned gray, and he shook off the ash.

Atop the airship, crews began switching on the floods, bathing the clearing in light as the sun continued its descent.

A heavy snap from inside the woods caught Zamir’s attention, like a thick fallen branch being crushed, and he stopped, cigarette hanging from his lips. He raised his flashlight and swept its beam across the dark interior.

Nothing but dirt, bark, and dead leaves.

He was about to move on when he heard the sound again, only louder.

“The hells,” he muttered, then grabbed his radio mike and keyed it. “I heard something in sector two. Checking it out.”

“Was it a deer?” Rowan asked. For some reason he’d taken charge of the patrols today. “The place is lousy with wild game.”

“Doubt it. Sounded too big to be a deer.”

“Well, whatever it is, don’t let it eat your drugged-up ass.”

“I’ll try.” He unkeyed the radio. “Jerk.”

Zamir affixed the flashlight to his rifle’s bayonet hook then advanced into the woods, stock pressed to his shoulder, light sweeping back and forth. His boots crunched through dry leaves and dead branches.

He made it less than ten yards before the giant spear impaled him from shoulder to groin.

Dirk stepped out of the tree line, each heavy stride of Titan Harbinger thundering against the ground. He stood within the cockpit, surrounded by conductor fluid up to his neck, his mind–his will–joined to the titan’s via the reflex link. The void furnace roared to full power, and his walk turned into a full sprint.

A void rifle popped to his left. Shoulder armor shrugged off the hit, and he threw the swiftmetal spear, the first body still skewered to it like a grotesque shish kebab. The spear hit the second sentry with enough force to tear through his torso. His legs and buttocks fell back while his head and shoulders summersaulted through the air.

An alarm sounded, and four rigs charged out of the airship’s hangar. Energy bolts from their cannons sang against his armor, and a warning flashed within his mind. He hunkered down and channeled his matter magic. Swiftmetal spooled out of his left wrist, and he shaped the mercurial substance into a large buckler shield.

Blasts rang against the shield, and he used another ejection of swiftmetal to form a heavy broadsword.

The rigs split to either side in an obvious attempt to flank him.

Dirk picked one group and charged, closing the distance with long, powerful strides. He bashed his shield against the first rig, and it toppled onto its back, squirming desperately to right itself. Dirk brought the edge of the shield down hard and crushed the rig like an empty beer can.

He swung the broadsword in a wide arc and cleaved the second rig in two. Blood splattered the soil, and void essence screamed out of the punctured tank. Dirk raised his shield as the rig erupted into wild, energetic streamers of unfocused magic.

Void shots splashed against his armor, and more damage alerts appeared in his mind. He rushed the two rigs, and this time he felt a difference–a weakening in the left leg muscles.

Whatever was wrong with the limb, it didn’t save the two rig pilots. He cut down the first, then morphed the broadsword into a barbed whip. The last rig tried to run, but he snared it, then dragged its kicking form back, and stomped it flat.

“That’s enough!”

Titan Hysteric Pugilist stepped out of the airship hangar, cracking its knuckles theatrically. The bulky mech was clad in burgundy armor chased with gold filigree. Catalysts in its arms and legs glowed with purple fire, and a cape of purple smoke exhaled from its shoulder louvers.

Dirk recognized the voice from the titan’s loudspeaker. The pilot was Rowan Kragg.

“What a bloody waste.” Rowan turned his titan’s head back and forth, taking in the carnage. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find good help?”

Dirk retracted his whip and shaped it into a sword, adding extra swiftmetal to bulk up the weapon.

“That you in there, old man?” Rowan growled.

Dirk said nothing.

“It must be. Why’d you have to make this difficult? Huh? All we wanted was a trinket you’re not even using! We would have even paid you for it!”

Dirk lowered his stance, shield braced, sword ready.

“Well, come on, then!” Rowan raised his fists like a boxer. “Let’s see what you’ve got, old man!”

Gravity magic flashed, and Rowan shot forward, skimming over the ground. His fist tolled against Dirk’s buckler, and a slender fracture etched up from the shield’s bottom. He followed that with a swift uppercut.

The twin impacts reverberated through the titan’s arm and shook Dirk within the cockpit. He channeled magic to weld the seam in his shield, then thrust with his greatsword, but Rowan darted to the side, leaving a cloud of purple smoke in his wake.

Rowan pounded at Dirk’s defenses, leaving fist-shaped dents. The shield cracked again, and the next blow sent a chunk flying off. Rowan pressed in, assaulting his opponent with a flurry of punches that forced Dirk to backpedal.

Rowan pulled one of his fists back, coiling it like a python ready to strike. Gravity magic flashed across all his catalysts, and he swung. Dirk’s shield shattered, and Rowan closed in and swung again.

Rowan’s fist collided with Titan Harbinger’s shoulder. Armor bowed, crumpled, and the shoulder imploded. The impact tore the limb free, and it fell away, artificial muscles snapping, power lines spitting.

Rowan’s catalysts flared, and he threw a savage uppercut.

Dirk answered with a rapid swing of his greatsword, and Rowan caught sight of the weapon’s arc too late.

“No!”

The weighty blade cleaved through Hysteric’s forearm, shattered one of its catalysts in a snap-flash of purple lightning, then carved a deep gash across the chest armor.

Rowan darted back.

Dirk aimed his sword and charged.

“Screw this!”

Rowan lit his catalysts and catapulted up into the air. He brought himself to a gentle hover high above the clearing.

Dirk looked up, lowering his sword.

“You’re good, old man,” Rowan taunted. “I’ll give you that much.”

Dirk gauged the distance. He morphed the greatsword into a harpoon, then spooled out a heavy linked chain onto the ground.

“But it’s over now. Give it up.”

Dirk fused the harpoon’s butt to the end of the chain.

“You hear me, Dirk! It’s over! What are you going to do? You can’t bloody reach me! All I need to do is find a big, heavy rock and drop–”

The harpoon punched through Hysteric’s left leg.

“WHAT?!”

The gravity catalyst in the leg flickered.

Dirk yanked on the chain, pulling Hysteric out of the sky. The titan crunched face first into the ground, and Dirk charged over. Rowan tried to scramble back to his feet, but Dirk planted a heavy foot on his back. He drew the harpoon out of the leg and shoved it through the titan’s spine.

Rowan screamed.

Dirk placed a hand atop the harpoon’s shaft and pushed it down into the mech.

The titan stopped moving.

The airship’s engines whined to life, growing louder and higher pitched as their propellers sped up.

No, Dirk thought with finality.

He transformed the harpoon into a huge boomerang.

The airship’s bridge was a forward-facing dome at the front of the craft. He could see uniformed men watching him worriedly through its many windows. He loosed the boomerang, and it scythed through the bridge in a shower of glass, metal, and viscera.

The weapon arched back to him, and he caught it with ease.

“STOP!”

A second titan stepped out of the airship, also plated in burgundy, but sleeker than Hysteric Pugilist and less heavily armored. Huge cannons inset with crystals sat atop each shoulder.

“I said stop!” spat Estan Kragg from within Unbreakable Vanguard. “Or else!”

He held out the titan’s hand, revealing Lorelei standing atop it. He aimed one of the cannons at her back.

“Not a step closer, you hear me, you madman!”

Dirk said nothing as he morphed the boomerang into a spear.

“You will do exactly what I say, or I swear I will reduce her to ash!”

Dirk hesitated after the spear finished taking shape, but not for any reason Estan would have understood. He zoomed in with his optics and studied his wife, took in her straight back, her proud bearing, and–most importantly–the confident gleam in her eyes.

She nodded to him. Once, slowly.

He had her permission to act. That was all he needed.

“First, you’re going to step out of that blasted machine, and then–”

The massive spear pierced through the Unbreakable Vanguard’s chest, decapitating Estan.

The energy titan tilted back, and Lorelei slipped from its hand. Dirk dashed forward, reaching with his remaining arm. He caught his wife as softly as he could in the titan’s outstretched hand, then slowed, dropped to one knee, and let her off.

She stepped off the palm and gazed up at the titan.

“Are you done?” she asked.

“Not yet.” He brought Harbinger back up to its full height. “This’ll only take a moment.”

He wrenched the spear out of Unbreakable Vanguard and marched into the airship. Whatever crew remained must have been cowering out of sight. He found the airship’s void furnace at the back of the hangar, jammed the spear into it, and walked out. The furnace began to scream like a demonic teakettle.

Lorelei was covering her ears when he returned.

“Now I’m done.”

He picked up his wife and carried her away from the battlefield.

The airship exploded behind them. Bits of debris pattered harmlessly off Titan Harbinger’s back.

Dirk set his wife down outside their home, then dropped Harbinger to one knee and disembarked. His magesuit was slick with gel-like conductor fluid. The sun had set, though that half of the sky still glowed faintly orange. A tapestry of stars twinkled over the rest.

Lorelei turned on the house’s outdoor lights.

“You have been busy,” she said, surveying the wrecked rigs around their home.

“I’ll clean up the bodies tomorrow.”

She took hold of the door and rocked it back and forth.

“And the door,” he said. “I’ll fix that tomorrow, too.”

She faced him with a warm smile. “You know, I’ve missed seeing you in your mage suit.”

“I’ve put on weight. It never used to be this tight.”

“Put on muscle, more likely.” She beckoned him closer with outstretched arms. “Come here, you.”

Dirk obliged and embraced his wife, the tension of the day evaporating in her arms. She clenched his butt cheeks with both hands and kissed him, hungrily, voraciously. As if this were their first time all over again.

They broke after what seemed like an eternity.

“I never doubted you’d come,” she said, gazing up into his dark eyes. “Not for a–whoa!”

Dirk swept her off her feet. He kicked the door aside and carried her into the bedroom. Lorelei draped an arm around his shoulders and kissed his cheek before he laid her on the bed. He climbed on top, one arm to either side of her face.

“Just one question before we begin,” she said in a husky voice.

“Anything.”

“I just have to know.” She paused before continuing, the edges of her lips quirking into an odd smile. “Did it ever occur to you to just give him the hexagon?”

Dirk’s face remained unreadable for long, silent seconds. And then, as if a gate had finally been opened, emotions started to leak across his face.

He cracked a smile for the first time that day and told his wife:

“Now why would I do a reckless thing like that?”

AFTERWORD

See, I told you it would be ten great stories! Anyway, just wanted to take a moment to thank all the readers who have purchased Giant Freakin’ Robots and Giant Stompin’ Robots. Like an older mentor who really should have let the medics check him out before just walking out of the hospital, I’m exiting stage left from the Raconteur Press Anthology Series so I can resume working on my own projects. It’s been real, but I’m getting a little too old to end up strapped to a bed while a “devoted fan” brandishes a metal hammer at me.

I’d like to thank Ian, Jonna, and Rita for dragging me out for chicken tenders a couple years back and am glad I’ve played a role in getting this fever dream of theirs off the ground. Between Giant Freakin’ Robots, Hooves, Tracks, and Sabers, The Big Ones, and now Giant Stompin’ Robots, I think I’ve more than covered my dinner that night. I hope that you, the fans, continue to balance my tab with the rest of their books.

Shameless pitch and baton handoff time: If you’re looking for a place to start (or continue, as the case may be), I highly recommend buying Giant Squeeing Robots when it comes out next year (or grabbing it if you’re reading this after 2025). TC Ross has a great concept in mind, and I suspect it’s going to be a lot more Bubblegum Crisis than the “Gundam on meth and steroids” these last two have been. If you like your mecha with a “slice of life” rather than a hail of autocannon fire, you won’t be disappointed.

OTHER ANTHOLOGIES

Giant Freakin’ Robots: Mechas, men, and yes, freaking huge robots

Pinup Noir: Fantasy, science fiction…great noir dames

Or All Will Burn: stories of the lengths a parent will go for their children

ALSO FROM RACONTEUR PRESS

THE MALTA ANTHOLOGIES

Ghosts of Malta

Knights of Malta

Saints of Malta

Falcons of Malta

SPACE COWBOYS

Space Cowboys

Space Cowboys 2: Electric Rodeo

Space Cowboys 3: Return of the Bookaroo

Space Cowboys 404: Cow Not Found

SPACE MARINES

Space Marines

Space Marines 2

Space Marines 3

MOGGIES

Moggies in Space

Moggies Back in Space

Moggies in Space: A Galaxy Fur, Fur Away

FEMME FATALES

Pinup Noir

Pinup Noir 2

Pinup Noir 3

THE SPURGLE CHRONICLES

Your Honor, I Can Explain…

You See, What Happened Was…

He Was Dead When I Got There…

You Again!

OTHER ANTHOLOGIES

All Will Burn

All Will Burn: Fierce Love

Full Steam Ahead

Giant! Freakin’! Robots!

PLEASE, TIP YOUR AUTHORS!

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Table of Contents

- Title Page
- Full Page Image
- Contents
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- Copyright
- Full Page Image
- Introduction – Dr. James Young
- Full Page Image
- 1. Titanfall – by Kal Spriggs
- Full Page Image

- 2. Such Giant Rude Invention – By Lee Allred

- Full Page Image
- 3. In Cat We Trust – by Jesse M. Slater
- Full Page Image
- 4. Righteous Goliath – By Bryan Young
- Full Page Image
- 5. Amazon Black – by Spearman Burke
- Full Page Image
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- 6. Same Dance, New Partner – J. M. Anjewierden

- Full Page Image

- 7. The Misfortune of Pirates – By James Young

- Full Page Image

- 8. Savage Stars: The Venusian Incident – By Moze Howard

- Full Page Image

- 9. One If By Land: A Story from The Guardian Covenant – By Kevin Ikenberry

- Full Page Image
- 10. Once a Titan Mage – by Jacob Holo
- Full Page Image
- Afterword
- Other Anthologies
- Full Page Image
- Also From Raconteur Press
- Please, Tip Your Authors!
- Full Page Image