‘I made i t… but it’s not what I expected . ’ Delta-Six re c orded his log while he hid in the shadow of a pile of bodies. ‘I have more questions now.’
He could see the silver gates, some ten metres tall and thirty wide, surrounded by camps made by hundreds of alien soldiers who, like Delta-Six, had drifted here. Were these defeated soldiers?
He detoured, avoiding the sprawling huts and tents, and walked to the immense gates, which reached high into the low clouds. He scanned and studied the metal with little outcome. There was no obvious opening mechanism and, judging by the piles of ash at its feet, it was protected by a sophisticated security system.
Wary of receiving attention from the myriad and deadly looking soldiers gathered in the camp, Delta-Six retreated to a safe place, from where he watched the comings and goings.
As the hours, and days, passed, the gates remained closed. New soldiers joined the camp, mostly in small groups, but Delta-Six noted one group of red worm-like fighters leaving on a herd of huge beasts, laden with rocks and primitive catapults. Off to war, he guessed.
The white obelisk, which commemorated the Brakari’s defeat, stood on an island of calm as the soil rose and fell around it like an undulating sea. Olan caught his breath and stared at the deformed and half-rotten Brakari soldiers rising from their war graves.
‘Can you see those?’ Olan pointed to the strings of vapour wisping from each warrior and into the sky.
‘No,’ the nearest Sorean replied.
Olan patted his gold chest plate and his eyes remained fixed on the rising creatures, which seemed to be pulled out of the ground by the white wisps. The Brakari walked with erratic movements as they came to attack, swinging their rusted blades and cracked claws with unpredictable speed.
‘Formation!’ Jakan-tar called its troops away from the dead Brakari-moles who woke from their short death.
What rite is this? Lavalle’s voice echoed around Olan’s head and he closed his eyes to focus.
Is there anything like this we can use? Samas asked.
Olan joined in. I see strings. They are being worked like puppets.
Belsang must be controlling them, Mihran said. It’s trickery.
So kill him and they all fall? Samas replied. We should send the cavalry wide todistract them,then my men will attack.
The river’s too close. Not enough room, Gal-qadan thought-cast for the first time.
I agree, Lavalle said.
Why can’t Li shoot Belsang? Olan said.
Belsang has an energy shield, Li replied. Even on full power, I won’t penetrate it at this range.
Wemuststrengthen the left flank, Samas said.
Lavalle started. Why can’t we–
SILENCE, Mihran thought-cast louder than before. Prepare to defend and I will issue my orders.
The voices faded and Olan opened his eyes. It always took him a second to deal with thought-casting. None of the other captains seemed to have that problem. Was it the chest plate filtering the messages, he wondered? His eyes refocused on the advancing enemy and he felt a presence by his side.
Jakan-tar looked up at him. ‘We have an issue.’ The green aura of the Sorean’s shield was flashing. ‘Our shields.’
Olan stepped back. ‘What’s happened to them?’
‘Interference.’ Jakan-tar nodded to where a gang of slave species clustered around the feet of Belsang’s Vaalori, moving boxes with lights. ‘They must have hacked into the shields they took from my captured soldiers.’
‘The shields John brought back with him?’ Olan asked.
‘Your troops will be affected too,’ Jakan-tar replied and walked away to join the front line. ‘You must inform your commander.’ His eyes lit up. ‘Now we fight without shields, we fight with pure energy!’
Olan nodded and closed his eyes to thought-cast. Mihran,the Soreanshields are failing.
Samas,did you hear that? Mihran replied. Do not trust the Soreanshields.
Hearing you loud and clear, Samas responded.
Your orders, Commander? Lavalle asked.
Defend and hold, came Mihran’s terse reply.
Olan’s eyes flicked open. Defend and hold? How do you defend against an army of the dead?
The Sorean moved back from the uneven ground and created what Olan assumed was the defensive line Jakan-tar had told him about. It was an ancient method, he’d said, used by the first Sorean when their planet had been invaded by a self-replicating mechanoid species intent on consuming the Sorean planet’s metallic resources for procreation. Like now, they’d been outnumbered and outgunned, but had defeated their enemy on the battlefield. Jakan-tar had gone on to explain how most of the Sorean’s technology was derived from the remnants of the defeated mechanoid army, including their shields.
Now, with no trust in their technology, the front line of Sorean bore a sword in each arm while those behind, armed with long spears and curved halberds, held back, ready to thrust at a moment’s notice. A wall of blades. Olan noticed the front warriors wore shield brooches donated by those behind in case they still worked.
Olan searched the battlefield and caught sight of Mata strolling casually through the melee. His tattooed body writhed as he ducked the blades of a Brakari-mole and swung his patu club in response. Only, he didn’t use his arm: a long, thick tendril flicked out and smashed the club down on the mole’s armoured head, cracking it with two vicious swipes. Mata paused mid-stride but didn’t look back.
Back at the Sorean front line, the first Brakari smashed into the swinging blades, which held for a second before the weight of the attack was too much and the Sorean stumbled back. Flashes of colourful shields were lighting up the front line where Brakari claws and tails smashed into the Sorean soldiers, but Olan could see by the number of dead trampled and scattered across the grass that many shields were useless now. The picture repeated along the line and Olan felt a pain in his belly: the Sorean had put everything into fighting the diggers and for what? A realisation came to him: he had never defended a position before. All of his battles had been attacks. Destruction. He had killed the weak to save them from the evils of his brethren, but now what could he do to save the weak?
Fight. That was all he could do.
‘Don’t worry,’ he shouted as he unclipped his battleaxe and ran to help the Sorean, ‘we’ve killed them once before and we can kill them again!’
He focused on a rejuvenated Brakari-mole with a brave Sorean on its shoulders, who stabbed at its neck with a long blade. Even the Brakari’s severed claws were attacking: flipping across the ground like beached sharks, snapping at ankles and feet. Olan rushed in with his axe high, shimmied to one side, then swung down, slicing between the neck and head plates. With one blow, the dead head was severed and fell on the floor with a hollow thud.
But the body fought on.
Olan parried a slicing arm and dug his axe into its remaining digging claw. The axe bit into the thick chitin and Olan fought to keep his feet as the arm pulled back. Dakaniha was beside him with all four eyes open, slashing at the shoulder joint with his knife, stabbing until the arm broke free.
‘Thanks.’ Olan stepped on the arm to wrench his axe free.
The body jumped and shook as it tried to dislodge the stubborn Sorean still on its back.
‘We must stop the dead creatures before the rest of their army arrive.’ Dakaniha pointed across the valley, where lines of live Brakari marched to the bottom. Only the trench stood in their way. Behind them, a pack of dark wolves rushed down the valley towards the centre of the human army.
‘We’ll have no energy left by the time they get here.’ Olan took a step back and looked up at the white lines flowing from each dead Brakari through the air to Belsang. If he could cut the links the undead would have no power. But how? Olan felt for Thor’s hammer hanging around his neck but his hand tapped his chest plate instead. His eyes widened. ‘I’ve got an idea.’ Olan pointed to where a Brakari-mole spun around, defending against a host of Sorean troops. ‘I need to get on its back.’
Dakaniha blinked and opened his mouth to protest but was cut off.
‘Just distract it and I’ll do the rest.’ Olan ran towards the large Brakari-mole with his axe high.
The Sorean who saw him coming stepped back and the Brakari spun to face him with blades slashing and its digging claw snapping wildly. Olan threw a glance to his left, where Dakaniha was fitting a long arrow to his bow. Olan dodged right, saw a flash of white and the enemy dipped as the arrow stabbed a foreleg. The angle was perfect: Olan ran up the leg with strong strides as another arrow made the Brakari-mole turn again. With a scramble, Olan was up on the shell and, with a burst of energy, leapt high and slashed the air with his axe. Two lines of diamond dust sparked and Olan felt a surge of energy rush through his chest plate.
When he landed, he stood on a motionless corpse.
‘You did it!’ Dakaniha leapt up beside him with a smile that turned into a frown. ‘What did you do?’
Olan thumped a fist against his chest plate and looked up into the sky, where the detached wisp coiled back to Belsang. ‘I’m not sure, but I think I’m going to have to do it again.’ Olan jumped down and away from the nearest fighting. ‘Give me a second.’ He closed his eyes and thought-cast to Mihran and the captains. Li, can you see the connections between the undead and Belsang?
What connections? Mihran asked.
They’re like fishing lines, Olan replied. Cut them and they drop.
You’d better cut them quick, Samas replied. We’ve got wolves coming over the ridge and the rest of the army isn’t far behind.
Li?
Okay, I’ve found the frequency. I’m surprised anyone can see at that level.
Can you cut them? Samas asked.
Sure, Li replied. Mihran, I think it’s time to use my rifle.
Agreed. Fire at will. And if you get close enough, take out Belsang.
Olan opened his eyes to see Dakaniha staring into the clouds, blinking his new eyes. ‘I think I see them,’ he muttered. ‘Another has been cut.’ He pointed.
Olan stared up and saw the second strand flailing back to where the powder-blue Brakari sat on his behemoth steed. Then another and another. He turned to Li’s section of archers and could make out Li, crouched behind a rock, aiming her rifle and steadily picking off the connections.
‘Great.’ Olan turned to Dakaniha. ‘Now we can fight the real soldiers!’
Mihran closed his eyes and checked the voices he had sent to counter Belsang’s disruption. They were still talking and arguing. He removed the few rambling voices that had gone mad and started new voices in their place.
With no time to lose, his eyes snapped open and scanned the battlefield and he readjusted his models. The undead Brakari soldiers were crashing to the floor as Li severed the connections between the puppets and their master. She managed to get two or three shots away before someone in the Brakari army located her and sent rapid missiles her way. Soon she would be running out of hiding places.
Find a good spot and stay there, Mihran thought-cast to Li.
On the left flank, Olan was leaping from enemy to enemy, slicing the ghostly fibres and reducing the pressure on the Sorean. Jakan-tar’s warriors had taken the brunt of the new attack and needed time to regroup before the wave of fresh, enhanced Brakari warriors entered the battle. The thick line of dark Brakari was already at the trench.
Mihran scanned Li’s troops. One man stood out from the rest as he took potshots at the newcomers: Ethan Turner. Gal-qadan had said he was accurate, but Mihran had taken it as bluster. Whether it was the man’s gun or his skill, Ethan was clearly hitting his mark with every shot. The bullets rarely killed but they were injuring and slowing down the oncoming Brakari. Mihran needed more soldiers like him: reliable and accurate.
Ethan, Mihran thought-cast, get close andaim for Belsang.
The American glanced back at Mihran, gave him a nod and ran downhill to find a clear shot.
Mihran let his main set of models run forward: five minutes; ten; thirty. None of them looked good. Forgetting the Lutamek, and as long as they had no more surprises from Belsang, the human–Sorean alliance would have to absorb every attack with minimum losses if they were to swing the battle in their favour.
Divide, demoralise, defeat.
Mihran caught a glimpse of movement beyond the river off the right flank. Brakari reinforcements?
Li, Mihran thought-cast. I need you or Bowmantolook beyond the right flank. Who is coming?
He watched Li roll behind a mound as an incendiary hit where she had been standing, spraying her troops with lumps of metal and earth.
Sure, she replied. I need a break. She ran uphill and ducked behind some rocks, from where Mihran saw her peering out. Okay, we’ve got twenty-three Brakari arriving. Dark-shelled.
Mihran felt his heart speed up. More of the enhanced soldiers they had yet to face. How could he judge their impact on the battle? He looked to Lavalle and his small troop of mounted knights. They were tasked with defending the ford but would their numbers be enough?
He had no choice.
Lavalle, Mihran thought-cast. Incoming enemy. Defend the–
A violent explosion sent Mihran’s tocka stumbling to one side and Mihran gripped its thick mane to avoid sliding off its muscular back. He turned to see a mass of thick smoke and rock debris where Li had been stationed.
Li? Mihran thought-cast and wheeled his tocka round. Instinctively it cantered towards the crater. Li, can you hear me?
Her archers were already at the rocks, wafting the smoke away and stepping in. After a few anxious seconds, Bowman strode out with a cloth at his face and Li’s rifle in his hand. He shook his head.
Li was dead.
Mihran sat motionless for what felt like minutes. He looked out to the battle and saw a flash of light from Ethan’s rifle, followed by a white bubble around Belsang. Eventually, Mihran blinked and looked at Bowman. ‘Give the rifle to Ethan.’ He pulled the tocka round and shouted over his shoulder, ‘You’re my captain now, Bowman.’
‘Centenaur? Me?’ the English archer asked and, when Mihran didn’t respond, puffed up his chest and rejoined what were now his troops.
Mihran headed back uphill. Lavalle, defend the ford.You have twenty-three incoming enemy soldiers. He couldn’t afford to be emotional. He had to stick to the primary model and mould and tweak until victory was theirs. He resumed his original position and watched Lavalle detach his group from Gal-qadan’s cavalry and move through the shallow ford.
Commander, you have to see this, Samas thought-cast and Mihran turned to focus on the centre of the battle.
A pack of dark wolf-like creatures scrambling over no-man’s-land was being attacked by its own army. Catapults fired huge incendiaries that painted electric-blue arches across the sky before smashing into the wolves. Have they escaped? Mihran wondered. One of the creatures writhed on the ground after being hit. The blue energy rippled across its body, changing its shape and size: its rear legs straightened and bulked out, the head distorted and teeth lengthened. The deformed but re-energised beast rose to its feet with a snarl and leapt in to attack. They weren’t being attacked: they were being forced to mutate.
Mihran ordered, Attack before they are enhanced.
Easy for you to say, Samas replied and ran to join his men in attacking the nearest freakish wolf.
Gal-qadan’s voice came next. The enemy have breached the pit.
Here too, Olan replied from within the Sorean ranks that had reformed twenty paces uphill from their original position.
Defend and hold, Mihran ordered all his captains.
He studied his model and waited before releasing Gal-qadan’s cavalry – they needed space, which they had now Lavalle and his knights had crossed the ford.
Gal-qadan, Mihran thought-cast. You have room for a Cantabrian circle. He sent an image of a moving circle of archer horsemen attacking the Brakari, hoping the Mongol knew the tactic. Gal-qadan didn’t respond, but the tocka were soon moving. Within a minute, a line was looping back round and opened fire as the first Brakari clambered out of the trench. One Brakari emitted its own energy shield and the arrows bounced away harmlessly, while another lost its footing after an arrow exploded in its face, sending it back into the trench.
Different models fought for Mihran’s attention now, including one he hadn’t seen for some time and had ignored. Some suggested releasing the tocka to ride wide and hit the Brakari from behind, while other models suggested a full-blown attack. Most suggested dividing the attackers.
Bowman, Mihran thought-cast. Direct all fire at the centre.
Yes, Commander.
Arrows and spears leapt into the air, followed by smoke from various guns. The British contingent of redcoats was holding its own with a rally of rolling fire and Mihran was pleased to see that, even though he couldn’t take out Belsang, Ethan Turner was making good use of Li’s rifle. As Mihran watched, he blasted an enemy soldier: splitting its carapace with a violent crack.
Every minute they survived was a minute closer to victory.
On the Brakari side, a group of pyramid-shaped creatures were rolling into Sakarbaal’s trench, locking together to form a bridge over which a dozen prime Brakari fighters now scuttled.
Samas, Olan, Mihran thought-cast. Enemy coming thick where your troops meet. Bowman, send a squad to help.
Yes, Commander, the archer replied.
Mihran sighed. They were being stretched on all sides. He watched Bowman’s division unleash a second attack, which ripped into the Brakari as they made landfall off the living bridge. The archers fought on. Some, like Euryleia, had no powerful weapon, but their metal-tipped arrows injured and slowed down the Brakari assault, giving Samas and his men time to concentrate on one enemy at a time. But it wasn’t enough. Mihran didn’t need his models and predictions to see that. They were losing ground and losing numbers.
One of the redcoats had been hit by the Brakari’s blue-electric arrows meant for the wolves and exploded into a mass of moss, which now rolled around the battlefield aimlessly. On the right wing, flashes and deep booms sounded as Lavalle and his knights engaged the new Brakari. Two of Gal-qadan’s horsemen were down, although their tocka still ran with the moving circle. Mihran recognised Tode as one of the fallen, but not the other. The Cantabrian circle had served its purpose but the Brakari had breached the trench and were running amok now.
Gal-qadan, Mihran thought-cast. Attack at will.
Time to show them what the tocka could really do, he thought.
Commander. Olan’s voice came through. Something’s happening in the forest.
Mihran turned to see ghostly white shapes creeping out of the trees. Some had made it onto the battlefield itself, where they threw handfuls of dust to the wind.
Frarex? Mihran asked.
Not them, Olan replied. In the forest.
The canopies of trees within the dark forest were shaking and a low rumbling could be heard. Was it the Lutamek or more Brakari reinforcements? Whatever it was, Belsang seemed as unsure as Mihran. His giant steed turned in the direction of the newcomers and the Brakari on their right flank disengaged from the Sorean, ready for what was about to appear.
Then the new force revealed itself: a line of five-metre-tall, steel-armoured and tri-tusked rhino-like behemoths. They crashed through the last line of trees and into the open meadowland, shaking the ground and snorting like beasts possessed.
There must be thirty of them! Olan’s voice echoed round Mihran’s head.
Even Mihran’s tocka took a step back when the huge animals burst onto the battlefield. From what Mihran could see, they carried red worms on their broad backs and came out of the forest in pairs: one carrying enormous baskets of large boulders and the other saddled with stout catapults.
Mihran threw a glance at Belsang, who was manoeuvring his steed back to face the fight, having evidently ordered his troops to re-engage with the humans. The newcomers were Brakari allies now.
For the first time in decades, Mihran swore.
All hell was breaking loose around Althorn as he fought to understand what his overloaded senses were telling him. The stench of burnt flesh and chemicals filled the air, sending his stomach into alternating bouts of hunger and sickness. He was sitting beside a cluster of trees near to where a pack of Brakari fired blazing weapons into the sky. Sorean and other smaller slaves ran across the grassy hillside with ammunition and messages. Monkey-like creatures were working a giant catapult nearby and lumbering Lutameks dragged nets of glass balls of blue liquid.
The battle had started.
Althorn stared out between the tree trunks across a valley. On the opposite side, a defensive line of broken earth ran across a scorched hillside. Behind it, various groups of humans fought through smoke and fire. Althorn saw lines of Brakari soldiers scrambling across the trench towards the bulk of the human army using bridges made by a horde of pyramid-shaped creatures.
Belsang had managed to trap them after all, Althorn thought, and by the look of Mihran’s fragmented army, the Brakari were winning.
The drifting wind carried a tang of putrid decay and Althorn retched but brought nothing up. Whatever he had been drugged with was wearing off. His shoulders ached where he had been tied to a stake in the ground.
Without warning, the trunks in front of Althorn moved. He blinked and looked up – the five broad, grey pillars were supporting a huge beast far bigger than the elephants Samas had described to him. It was four men high and had long drapes of metal-tipped armour hanging down its sides. On its back sat a wooden platform, where Althorn could make out an unmistakable powder-blue glow.
‘Belsang,’ he murmured.
Why was the Brakari leader keeping him by his side? Was he being saved to trade if they lost the war? Surely not. This was a battle to the death and only the victorious gained freedom through the silver gates. Belsang would have another use for him and, knowing the Brakari, it wouldn’t be pleasant. Althorn had to escape and… he remembered the two brown creatures from the cart. They’d said they would help him kill Belsang, but there was no sign of them.
Althorn twisted his neck to see what Belsang was looking at. Past where the Sorean were fighting, scores of large shapes emerged from a forest. Althorn felt his stomach tense at the sight and flinched as a Brakari soldier scuttled past.
‘Your orders, Dominus?’ it asked Belsang.
Belsang waited a moment before answering. ‘I have spoken with their leader. They are allied to our cause.’
‘But Brakari don’t make alliances,’ the Brakari responded.
‘You question my authority?’ One of Belsang’s tiny arms pointed to the front line. ‘Join the battle immediately or I will make you prise off your shell and feed yourself to my Vaalori, limb by limb.’
Belsang’s huge steed sidestepped back into its original position and the officer cowered before it.
‘Yes, Dominus. Victorio Brakarius!’ It raised a claw and disappeared down the hill.
Althorn watched the horned beasts from the forest pair up on the open ground of the battlefield. Myriad worms scampered over their backs, lifting rocks into wooden catapults, and each giant beast let out a wild trumpet-like call. A cacophony of deep, whip-crack sounds followed and dozens of catapults fired in unison. A moment of silence held as huge shadows raced across the battlefield before the immense lumps of rock smashed into the human–Sorean army, sending up clouds of dust and body parts.
Althorn swallowed hard. Boulders crushed the Sorean soldiers, obliterating three or four men in Samas’ section at a time. One boulder crashed into a huge mossy shape, sending a shower of water over the red-coated riflemen nearby. Was that Mata? No, Althorn searched and found Mata strolling across the other side of the battlefield.
The Maori looked oblivious to anything around him as he nonchalantly strode into the Brakari front line. Althorn watched in awe as Mata homed in on a large, long-legged Brakari equipped with two flaming claws. Roots spurted out of Mata’s feet, raising him up. The Brakari flinched and Althorn heard two pops. Mata’s seed pods, he presumed. Then Mata raised an arm and dark-green vines sprang from his hand. Flames leapt from the Brakari but the vines wrapped around its limbs. Mata raised the other arm and more vines shot out. The Brakari flashed electric pulses, fired white-hot flames and slashed with all manner of blades and claws, but Mata had him in a deadly embrace. Seconds later, the Brakari lay in pieces and Mata resumed his casual stroll along the trench.
Althorn sighed. Mata was deadly but there was only one of him. Pummelled by the catapulted rocks, the rest of the army was only just holding the line – and more Brakari were coming. Althorn’s comrades needed him, yet here he was, shackled and half blinded. He pulled on his restraints and grunted as the ropes bit into his wrists.
His eye travelled up to Belsang and he remembered the way he had casually flicked his eyeball from claw to claw. The arrogance and contempt riled Althorn, and an urge for vengeance surged through his veins. He had to do something! His belly tightened and he felt a strength building. He felt the ball of anger and defiance that had been there since the day his people had been massacred and taken into slavery. Nothing would take that feeling of loss away from him. Althorn had learnt from his first kill that he could feel temporary relief. Each assassination and every murder: the slave owners; pillagers; tyrants; and rapists. Each of their deaths had only given him a moment of peace, but killing Belsang would right many wrongs. Would it set Althorn free of his pain?
It didn’t matter. He had no choice. He had to escape and kill Belsang, or die trying.
With a quick look for nearby guards, Althorn pushed against the pole – and it moved. He shoved it again, looked down to see a gap appearing where the stake drove into the earth. He pushed again and wiggled, then grabbed the pole and lifted it. Crouching down, he raised the pole clear of its hole, but the weight pulled him over, into the mud. With a grunt, he shimmied down and slipped his tied hands off and under his feet. The knot was easy for his teeth and, before he knew it, Althorn was free and climbing up the armour of the giant Vaalori.
The battle raged on with explosions and screams echoing along the valley and Althorn had to stop to catch his breath and make sure he hadn’t been spotted. There were slave species nearby, working with boxes covered in lights, but they seemed too drained to look up, so Althorn twisted a spike out of the armour and gripped it between his teeth.
A few more rungs and Althorn was on the platform, behind Belsang. He calmed his breathing and clenched the spike in his hand before moving in to kill, as he had done scores of times before. He would aim for the throat area beneath what, from behind, looked like Belsang’s head.
He took two steps forward.
‘It’s a good view from up here, isn’t it Althorn?’
A blue hand leapt out of Belsang’s back and snatched the spike before Althorn had a chance to respond. He stepped back and lost his balance, slipping on the metal armour, but another blue hand appeared and grabbed him.
Belsang continued, ‘Although, not good from your point of view, I imagine.’
Althorn looked at the hand gripping his wrist: a gnarled, alien hand.
It felt like an out-of-body experience: here he was next to the enemy leader but unable to kill him.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘not a good view.’
‘Stay a while and watch with me.’
‘I…’ Althorn looked down to see several Brakari officers pacing around the Vaalori’s feet.
‘Or not,’ Belsang said, ‘it’s your choice. Staying would lengthen your pitiful life by a few moments.’
Althorn was lost for words.
‘So be it.’ Belsang raised his voice so the troops below could hear. ‘Now is the time for a sacrifice. Victorio Brakarius!’
‘Victorio Brakarius!’ the voices called back.
‘Take him.’ Belsang let go of Althorn and he fell off the Vaalori.
A long second later, he hit the ground with a thud and everything went black.
‘According to the message on the obelisk at the start of my journey, something must happen today.’ Delta-Six started his log on what he calculated was his fourteenth day in what he now accepted was not a virtual prison.
‘On another note, my mini-sat, Copan-One, has been in communication with me. I’ve managed to access its archived images and I believe it has information it wants to share. Here comes a live camera feed… it’s hovering over a broad valley where two armies are locked in battle and… I can zoom in. I recognise the blue arachnids I fought in the desert. The sat’s swinging round to face the other army and… I must help them.’
‘What’s wrong?’ John asked Millok when they stopped for a water break behind a stand of rocks protruding from the grassy plain like worn teeth. ‘Something on your mind?’
Millok’s spiracles opened and closed before she replied, which John had learnt was a sign she was thinking.
‘Two things,’ she started. ‘Doctor Cynigar. I know we saw his body but–’
‘He’s dead,’ John cut in. ‘You took off his head remember? Then my bullet ripped a hole through his body.’
Millok made an undecipherable head wobble.
‘He’s dead,’ John repeated. ‘What’s the other thing?’
Millok looked up to the distant horizon. ‘This battle… sometimes I forget what I’m fighting for.’
There was more, John could tell, but he didn’t know how to get her to talk. All he could do was empathise. ‘Well, I’m fighting to get to the gates so I can make whoever brought me here pay for taking me from my son.’
Millok turned to him. ‘I will be fighting against my children.’
John held her alien gaze and tried to understand how she felt. ‘There must be a way to…’
‘I have to fight to get through the silver gates,’ she replied. ‘If I don’t, I’ll be stuck here with the Brakari survivors and they’ll want revenge.’
‘But you’ve already killed an enemy – you killed Doctor Cynigar,’ John said.
Millok stood up. ‘Maybe.’
‘So, you want to kill more to make sure?’ John asked.
‘Let’s go,’ Millok replied, which John took as a ‘yes’ and climbed onto the cart.
John double-checked the Lutamek box and gripped the cart with his good hand. Now she was back to full fitness, Millok could cover the ground four times faster than John could run.
‘John,’ Millok turned to him before pulling away, ‘you should never fight for vengeance.’
‘You think fighting for a righteous cause is better?’ John shook his head. ‘I’ve done that and look where that got us. One bleeding war after the next.’
‘No, you should fight for something you believe in,’ Millok said. ‘You should fight for your comrades – for your friends.’ She turned and, after a tug, they were speeding across the plain again.
Millok had something there, John thought. Back in France, after the shine had gone and reality kicked in, the only thing John and his mates had fought for was each other: looking out for snipers; telling stories; keeping spirits up when they got tired.
John thought about Crossley, Mata and Althorn. His head dropped as a wave of shame washed over him. He was right to volunteer to retrieve the Lutamek box but had been selfish seeking safety and abandoning his comrades. What would his grandfather have said about that? He pictured the old man’s red-cheeked face and brilliant-white hair as he spouted whatever had him fired up. ‘There are no second places in war, John!’
Maybe his grandfather had been right. He’d been to war and seen death, just like John had. Maybe the old man had been tough on John because, however hard he was, the reality of war would be much harder. Life had proven to be just as hard, John realised, and his thoughts turned to Rosie… and Joe.
The wooden cart bumped and jolted across the prairie as John’s feelings consolidated. He had something to fight for: justice. And he had something to die for: his friends.
They climbed the long hill to the war valley and a light wind carried odours of battle that John recognised as explosives, turned earth and burnt flesh.
‘We stop here.’ Millok pulled up and lay down.
‘Are you sure?’ John climbed off, ready to fight, but could hear the tinkle of the Brakari’s holes gasping for oxygen. Millok needed rest. ‘I’ll get some practice in,’ John said and walked away.
Like in the trenches, he picked a target fifty paces away, a rock, and prepared his weapon. There was no bipod, no circular ammunition case to clip on, nothing to oil and no water cooler to top up. ‘Water!’ He wished he’d kept the bucket from Abzicrutia to cool his gun-arm down. He scanned the gun for an air vent or some remnant of the cooling system but nothing could be found. If this weapon had evolved, like Li said they all had, why didn’t it have a way to remove the heat?
He told himself to forget it and stood in a stable firing position.
Using what felt like his fingers, John pictured a pointed bullet of compressed air and felt the shape take form inside the gun body. The sensation of heat was rising too.
Concentrate, John told himself, and fired.
The gun didn’t make a sound and neither did the rock. A line of bent grass to one side showed where his shot had disappeared. Just like when he had shot Doctor Cynigar, there were no bullet casings flying from his gun, so he wasn’t sure if he was firing slivers of metal or compressed air. He tried again, forming the shape, spinning then shooting. And missed. He tried again, with shorter and longer bullets, spinning one way, then the other, until a shard of stone finally splintered off the rock target with a satisfying crack.
The sound startled Millok, who stood up.
‘I’m rested,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’
Her voice sounded loud to John. ‘Wait.’ He held up his good hand. ‘It’s too quiet. Something’s wrong.’
Millok followed John’s eyes up the hill towards the battle valley beyond.
John’s face dropped. ‘We need to go. Now.’ He clambered onto the cart as quickly as he could. ‘Quick!’
Millok pulled the cart up the rest of the hill and, as they reached the apex, the valley came into view. A dark line of torn earth curved an arc around where John’s army had been stationed and bodies of all sizes lay scattered across the valley, some ringed by scarlet, others in burnt craters, mostly on the human side of the battle.
Nothing moved.
John climbed off the cart. His good leg wobbled and he fell to the ground.
‘We’re too late.’