www.thevalentinechronicles.com presents:
Flesh
by
Paul L. Mathews
Part Six
Bite Me
Stanztrigger and Boyd left
the bridge, running down the corridor to the stairwell. Boyd still had Tatiana
over his shoulder, but the girl was regaining consciousness. Her eyes flitted open, only to close again, and she groaned
periodically whilst her limbs twitched.
“We have to reach the hangar,” Stanztrigger
said. “There will be Hammers prepared by my men ready to attack and seize the Troika.
We will use them to get off the Tower.”
Boyd grunted. He hadn’t seen a Hammer in years. In
fact, they hadn’t been made in years.
Still, he didn’t care how old they were if they got the three of them out in
one piece.
They emerged from the corridor into the stairwell
before traversing the narrow mesh bridge. There they reached the stairs that
spiralled down the chamber’s spinal conduit. Stanztrigger’s
pace didn’t abate, seemingly undaunted by the possibility of falling off the
stairs. Boyd was more circumspect. He didn’t know exactly how high they were,
but it must be at least two hundred decks.
With the chamber echoing to the sound of Boyd’s boots
and Stanztrigger’s hooves on the stairs, they pressed
on. They’d descended a further two decks before Boyd pulled up, pointing. “Calci!”
Stanztrigger stopped, and squinted.
Five decks below, on a narrow bridge that led from
the stairs to a darkened doorway, four Calci—once Stanztrigger’s dog headed guards—were moving toward the
staircase. In bloodied fatigues, clutching old submachine guns, they were
looking up at Boyd and Stanztrigger. Even from here,
Boyd could see their slack mouths, pallid skin and dead eyes.
“No matter.” Stanztrigger began to run again. “We’ll deal with them soon
enough.”
“Um, Stanztrigger?
They’re pointing guns at us.”
“Residual instinct. The Calci don’t use gu—”
The Calci fired, and
bullets stabbed through the air about Boyd and Stanztrigger,
ricocheting off the metal of the stairs and the central conduit. As sparks
showered them, Boyd crouched and hid under his arm in reflex.
“I stand corrected.” Stanztrigger
hadn’t bothered to crouch, hadn’t bothered to seek some sort of shelter. He
merely raised his pistol and fired, the boom of his gun bludgeoning the air.
Below, one of the Calci
flexed as Stanztrigger’s bullet thudded into its
torso, bursting out of its back in a bloody haze. Still the Moreaus
fired. Boyd, propping Tatiana against the conduit and shielding her with his
body, fired back. At this range, however, and with such a poor pistol, he
hadn’t a prayer of hitting his target in the head. Instead the round punched a
hole in the target’s groin. Such a wound would have stopped a normal Moreau,
but not a Calci. Undeterred, the Calci
continued to fire. Bullets hissed passed Boyd, and still the sparks fell upon
him, piercing his skin and clothes like hot needles.
Boyd and Stanztrigger
continued to fire. By chance Stanztrigger blew a hole
in one of the Calci’s head, the body convulsing as it
toppled off the bridge and into the darkness below. In return, Stanztrigger was hit, roaring in anger and pain as a volley
of bullets traced an arc of sparks across the conduit before writing a
concussive line across his chest. He staggered back, hit the conduit, and
slumped onto his haunches.
“Stanztrigger!”
“I am fine.” He was still firing, but one hand was on
his chest, blood escaping from beneath it and venturing down his flak-vest.
“We need to get off this bloody bridge! We’re sitting
ducks here!”
“I will not run! I will not falter!” He was stood
now, holstering his pistol. “I! Am! Stanztrigger!” With that, he leapt from the staircase, arms and legs
stiff and outstretched.
Boyd reached for him, shouting, “No!”
The Calci continued to fire at the Moreau even as his gaunt frame bore down on them. Boyd didn't have time to gauge if they hit or not, Stanztrigger hit the bridge, hard, buckling the mesh and flexing the narrow structure. Two of the Calci, flailing, lost their balance and pitched into the darkness, vanishing into the depths below. The last fell onto its back, its SMG clattering down beside it. Stanztrigger, too, was pitched to the side and hung from one hand from the weakened bridge.
Boyd—convinced the Moreaus
had outplayed his hand—looked on as—still dangling—Stanztrigger
put his other hand to his wounded chest. From his vantage point, Boyd could see
a glazed look had taken possession of the Moreau, and the steaming of his
breath was erratic and shallow. He could also see the Calci
looking down and—seeing Stanztrigger—it rolled onto
its hands and knees and began to move toward him. Its canine mouth was open,
and thick saliva coated its teeth and oozed from its gums.
“Fucking idiot,” Boyd put his forehead into his palm
as he shook his head in exasperation.
Leave him. We don’t need him.
“Do you know the way to the hangar? To the Hammers?
No, but—
“Neither do I. We need hi—”
With a rapid series of metallic pings, more
bullets struck the metal of the conduit just above Tatiana’s head and the
ricocheting bullets whistled past Boyd. Looking up, his eyes narrowed and his
teeth ground at the sight of more Calci. Lurching on
to a bridge above there were six in all. Two—once Moreaus—fired haphazardly at Boyd, the rest were once
human. He guessed they’d been prisoners in Stanztrigger’s
pantry, but now they were jaded, leering ghouls covered in blood and bite
marks. With a loping gait, they crossed the bridge and reached the staircase.
“Bugger.” Boyd fired back as
the Calci continued to shoot at him, but his inaccurate
weapon could inflict little more then ineffectual flesh-wounds. Yet more bullets
stabbed at the metal about him, and he knew it was only a matter of time until
they scored a hit—lucky or otherwise.
He turned to grab Tatiana, but paused as he looked
over his shoulder. Stanztrigger still hung from the
bridge, and the Calci was closing in fast as it
licked needy lips. Shaking, bloody, the beleaguered Moreau attempted to draw
his pistol, managing only to take the weapon from its holster before it slipped
from his weak fingers and spiralled into the abyss below. Boyd blinked, frozen.
He knew he should just run and take Tatiana. He should find the hangar himself,
or maybe get to the dock and steal that Dogfish. But he couldn’t. There was
something about this Moreau. Something so epic, that—even as the weakened
legend fought to retain a grip on the bridge, even as his life leaked away through
the holes in his chest—he left Boyd mesmerised. With his determination, with
his faith, with his anger, there was something about him, something of Nemo, or Ahab, that Boyd could not abandon.
“Wait here,” he said, whispering in Tatiana’s ear.
Again she stirred, eyelids flickering. Her hands twitched. “I’ll be right
back.” He kissed her forehead. “I promise.”
Right back? What
are you…? Oh, you’ve got to be joking!
With a last look at Tatiana and a quick glance at the creatures above, Boyd turned, sprang forward and—with a thrust of his boot against the edge of the stairs—launched himself into the air just as Stanztrigger had done. Arms and legs pumping, he fell with a clang to land in a crouch. He wavered, but grabbed at the bridge to steady himself. The Calci snarled as it turned to face him and tried to rise to its feet, but Boyd sprang forward and struck the creature across the chin, knocking it off the bridge.
The gunfire continued to rain from above. A bullet
hit Boyd in the thigh—but he ignored the pain. Now it was his turn to snarl,
diving forward and seizing the abandoned SMG.
Whipping round, he trained the gun on his attackers.
“Bring out your dead!” he shouted above the chatter
of the SMG as he fired a prolonged burst. The gun
twisted and bucked in his hands, but even though he only held it in the one
hand, he was strong enough to make the shots count. His bullets tore through
the Calci and they lost their footing, slipping off
the bridge and plummeting out of sight with their limbs threshing the air.
“Boyd!” Stanztrigger
shouted. “The girl!”
Twisting, Boyd saw the last four Calci
were almost upon Tatiana, closing within feet as they slavered and groped,
their bent, twisting bodies throwing theatrical shadows on the side of the
spinal conduit. Boyd fired again, this time in shorter bursts for fear of
hitting Tatiana. The four Calci were chewed up by the
volleys, dancing in a shower of sparks as they were riddled with bullets. As
Boyd exhausted the SMG’s magazine, three of the
creatures—bodies smoking—pitched forward and fell off the stairs. One, however,
fell sideways, landing on the stairs mere feet from Tatiana. Instantly, it
began to stir, pushing itself up on its punctured arms and glaring at the Oridian.
“Tatiana! No!” Boyd froze. He didn’t know what to do.
He couldn’t fire. He couldn’t reach her. He—
The Calci lunged, mouth
bearing down on Tatiana. At the last instant the girl’s eyes fluttered open and
she lurched to one side, the Calci’s face smashing
into the conduit. Blood erupted from its nose and forehead, and, as the Calci rose to its feet, it blinked and rubbed at the gore
in its eyes. With an uncoordinated shove, Tatiana pushed at its belly, and the
creature lost its balance, crying out as it fell off the stairs and plunged to
its death.
Tears stung Boyd’s eyes. She looked toward him,
flopping back against the conduit as she smiled a weak smile and gave him an even weaker thumbs up.
Heart racing, blood pounding in his ears, Boyd looked
about him. There were no more Calci. He looked down
at Stanztrigger. It was the Moreau’s turn to look
impressed.
#
Having hauled Stanztrigger
off the bridge and into the corridor beyond, Boyd returned to Tatiana. Reaching
the girl, he took her in his arms and held onto her. “Thank Christ you’re okay.”
“Of course I’m okay.” She grimaced as she spoke, and
her hand went to her throat, stroking it gently. “I’m a Valentine.”
“How do you feel?”
“This wound really hurts.” Her voice was strained and
coloured by the effort required to ignore the pain. “And my throat hurts when I
talk.”
For a moment, Boyd knelt on the stairs and breathed
in the smell of her hair and revelled in the feel of her skin on his cheek.
“I’m getting you out of here, Princess,” he said in a gentle whisper as he drew
back and kissed her forehead, “and I’m taking you home.”
#
When they returned to Stanztrigger,
the Moreau had stripped off his flask-vest and opened his shirt. He was peering
at his chest through his pince-nez as he used a tiny device to staple the
wounds closed, wincing as he went. He looked up as Boyd—supporting the weak
Tatiana as she staggered beside him—entered the corridor.
“Hello, young lady,” Stanztrigger
said with a smile.
“Um. Hi.” Tatiana looked
faintly embarrassed, and she glanced sideways at Boyd.
“Princess, this is Stanztrigger.
Stanztrigger, this is Her Highness Tatiana Cyzarine Valentine of the Enlightened Court of Oridia.”
“Ah, Oridia. A beautiful planet. Seductive in its
purity. You suit it well.”
“That’s enough small talk,” Boyd said as he saw
Tatiana blushing deeply. “C’mon, we need to get outta
here.” He reached down and helped Stanztrigger up.
Around them the klaxons continued to howl. “We’re running out of time.”
#
“We are twenty decks above the hangar,” Stanztrigger said. “This is the quickest way.”
They stood at a set of rusty doors. With a ping they
opened, revealing an elevator within. Although dimly lit by a single bulb
that hung from its ceiling, wiring exposed, there was nowhere to hide for the Calci crouched inside. Once it had been a human from the
Pantry, now it was a monster gorging itself on a luckless Moreau whose mouse
features were frozen in an agonised rictus.
The creature barely had time to look over its
shoulder, a look of surprise intruding on the blood and gore on its face. Boyd
fired immediately, and the Calci’s head was smashed
open.
Boyd, Tatiana, and Stanztrigger
stepped into the elevator, boots barely gripping the floor through the spilt viscera.
Stanztrigger pressed at the worn buttons, selecting
the appropriate deck. The doors shut, cutting of the sound of the klaxons, the
sudden silence as intrusive as any muzak.
Stanztrigger smiled, but
his shoulders were sagging, and he looked down, closing his eyes. He suddenly
looked very weary, and his hand went to his stomach as it grumbled loudly.
Boyd took Stanztrigger
gently by the arm. The sleeve was wet with blood, and the Moreau recoiled
immediately, wincing as a hiss of air escaped his gritted teeth. “You okay?”
Boyd asked.
“We’ll be there very soon,” the Moreau said, changing
the subject. “You need to be ready. The lift is located on the periphery of the
hangar.” He looked away, as is embarrassed. “The Calci
may be converging on my men in the hangar waiting to attack the Troika.
They may be upon us before we draw breath.”
“We’ll cope.” Boyd said “We’ll be off this ship in
five minutes flat. Trust me.”
“You, young lady, will need this.” Stanztrigger turned back and offered Tatiana a small pistol
from a holster nestled in the small of his back.
Tatiana shook her head. “No. I can’t. Uncle doesn’t
approve.”
Stanztrigger’s look was
quizzical. “‘Doesn’t approve’?”
“Her uncle had some sort of epiphany years ago,
fighting against the Theocracy,” Boyd said. “He forsook guns, and now he
insists Tatiana and her sister don’t use them either.”
“Epiphany? Fighting the
Theocracy?” Stanztrigger put the gun away. “He sounds
like a man of principle. I like him already.”
“He has his moments.” Boyd’s tone was dry, and it
earned him a reproachful glance from Tatiana.
“Can either of you fly a Hammer?” Stanztrigger
asked.
“I may be able to,” Boyd said. “Been a while, but…”
“And you?”
“Sure. How hard can it be,” Tatiana said with a shrug
and a wan smile.
“Won’t you be flying it?” Boyd asked Stanztrigger.
“I’m not coming.”
“What the Hell? Why? Are you crazy?”
Stanztrigger gripped the
cuff on his sleeve, rolling it back to expose a vicious wound on his forearm.
The skin was green and festering, the blood a deep, clotted purple. Boyd looked
at the wound, and then into the Moreau’s face.
“Oh, Christ…”
“I was bitten when we were ambushed in sick-bay. I’m
fighting it, but even now I can feel the poison inside me. I don’t know how
long I can hang on.”
“Isn’t there something we can do?” Tatiana said. “Back on the Troika? Maybe Dolly can—”
“No. There is nothing to be done.” He looked at them,
and smiled. “And I am glad.”
Boyd blinked, stunned. “What?”
“Boyd, I am tired.” Stanztrigger
closed his eyes and let his head roll back. “Very tired.
It is fifty years since I have slept. I can’t do it anymore. Even my will and
my faith can’t defeat this. Crepitus has beaten me. Finally.” He looked at them again, and that familiar fire
crept back into his voice, his eyes blazing beneath arched eyebrows. “He has
taken my crew from me. He has taken my ship. With them gone, I have nothing to
strive for.” He reached for Boyd, grasping him by the shoulder. “But you, you
do. You have Tatiana. You have the Troika. Promise me you’ll get back to
them, and get this girl to safety.”
Boyd nodded, lost for words. Stanztrigger
stepped up to him, bending to whisper in his ear, “and promise me you’ll kill
that fucking twat Crepitus.”
#
The elevator door opened, and the sound of klaxons,
gunfire, screaming, shouting, thunder, and the throb of engines combined to
batter Boyd, Stanztrigger and Tatiana.
Then Boyd’s pistol joined the cacophony. A gaggle of Calci Moreaus were stood in a
loose pack with their backs to the lift, firing SMGs.
They fell like skittles as Boyd fired successive shots into their skulls, their
brains bursting out of exit wounds in their foreheads.
Boyd assessed the situation. Before
him lay the hangar. Three stories high, its octagonal walls were grimy
and wet. Driving rain speared through the open bay door, the water on the deck
shining from the glare of spotlights in the metal ceiling, the bodies of gnawed
Moreaus and decapitated Calci
breaking the surface of the water. In the centre of the hangar sat a Hammer: a
small, armoured gunship with a hammer-headed, dropped nose cockpit, a narrow
fuselage sporting wings for canons and rocket pods, and an open ramp to the
rear. All around, clutches of Moreaus fired panicked
bursts at gaggles of Calci that swamped the hangar, lurching
from doorways or holding their ground as they returned fire or dragged their ravaged
bodies through the water.
Stanztrigger pointed toward
the Hammer as he bent to take two SMGs from the Calci Boyd had dispatched. He threw one to Boyd before
snatching up another. “There! Get ab—” His voice was
drowned out, a deafening crack of thunder bursting through the hangar as the
darkness beyond the hangar doors was eclipsed by pure, brilliant lightning.
“Get aboard! You have four minutes before the Tower goes up. I will draw their fire.”
Boyd looked at Stanztrigger.
The Moreau showed no sign of fear as he looked back at him. “It’s been an
honour,” Boyd said, extending an open hand.
“Likewise.” Stanztrigger’s grip was firm. Even after they had shaken
hands, however, he retained his grip on Boyd’s hand, pulling him close to
whisper in his ear, “And, Boyd? Get to a doctor. You’re very sick.”
“What do you me—” It was too late, with a bellow of
“I! Am! Stanztrigger!”,
the Moreau was away, sprinting toward the Hammer as he fired his two SMGs simultaneously, targeting two groups of Calci.
“Tatiana!” Boyd shouted over the sound of gunfire.
“Let’s go!” He beckoned her to him, and she obeyed, leaning heavily on his
chest. Wrapping her arms about his back, she hauled her legs up, tucking them
against his belly. Untroubled by this extra load, Boyd sprinted after Stanztrigger.
A crackle of gunfire scratched at the air, and Stanztrigger went down, twisting and arching his back as
bullets thudded into him. He fell headlong into the dirty water, dropping his SMGs and groping at his back as smoke spiralled from his
shredded flak-vest.
“Shit!” Boyd sprang forward, sighting the Calci who had shot Stanztrigger
and gunning them down. Reaching the fallen Moreau, Boyd knelt beside him.
“Leave me,” Stanztrigger
managed to say, gasping. He was already drawing another pistol.
Yeah, leave him! We need to get out of here!
“We’re not leaving you, sir.” Tatiana had to raise
her voice over the sound of the battle. She paid for it, gasping in pain and
messaging her throat once more.
“But—”
“No ‘buts’. She’s right. Wound or no wound, we’re not
leaving you. Now get the fuck up and move your arse.”
Stanztrigger’s eyes flashed
and his nostrils flared.
“What he said,” Tatiana said.
Boyd? Will you pay attention? The Hammer! It’s lifting off!
He looked toward the gunship. Sure enough, the craft
was lifting from the deck,
Boyd? Come on! Move!
“Time to go,” Boyd said, springing forward. For all
his injuries, Stanztrigger fell in behind him,
keeping pace as a trail of blood flourished in his wake.
They circled the Hammer and bore down on its rear
ramp. It was only at shoulder height. Boyd cast aside his SMG
and, with a heave, lifted Tatiana onto the ramp before hoisting himself up.
Reaching back, he grasped Stanztrigger’s wrist and
hauled him aboard. Bullets ricocheted of the ramp and the metal about them, and
Boyd saw a unit of Calci approaching the Hammer,
firing as they went.
“Get to the cockpit,” Stanztrigger
shouted as he turned to return fire, ignoring the bullets that scythed passed
them, “and get us out of here.”
Boyd looked over his shoulder. The interior of the
Hammer was lined with benches with empty lockers above them, doors flapping
open. It was lit by weak, orange lights, and it stank of oil and urine. From his
vantage point, he could see a Calci in bloodied
Theocracy fatigues leaning over the pilot, feasting on his neck. Blood was
spraying onto the canopy, and the pilot’s boots beat against the bloodied plexiglass as he thrashed and howled. There was something
about that Calci kit that Boyd had seen before.
“Princess? You’re flying.”
“What about that Calci?”
Upon hearing them, the Calci
turned to glare at Boyd and Tatiana.
“I’ll take care of him, Princess.” Now Boyd knew were
he’d seen this one before. The wolf Moreau who’d taken
Tatiana from the Troika. The one driving the Dogfish who’d tried
to cut him down with a machine gun. Now, however, he was empty handed, but his wolfen face was twisted and snarling, the fur about his
mouth lost beneath a sea of foaming blood. His eyes were bloodshot and wide,
and his clawed hands dripped with gore. Panting, his green tongue flopped from
behind his teeth, licking about his chops in a wide arc. Only this lupine Calci stood between them and control of the Hammer. “Right,
y’bastard,” Boyd said, fists clenched as he moved
forwards, “bring out your dead.”
A sound somewhere between a snarl and a howl bubbled
out of the Calci as it leapt. Flying though the air,
its gaping maw bore down on Boyd’s neck only for him to swat the creature from
the air with a thunderous left hook to the chin.
The Calci hit the deck,
rolled, and sprang back up. It butted Boyd in his solar plexus with the hard
bone of its forehead, driving the breath from him. He staggered back against
the bulkhead, falling onto his arse. Clutching the bench there, he began to
rise to his feet, only to see the Calci bearing down
in him once more.
Twisting, Boyd took hold of a metal door from the
lockers above the bench, ripping it from its hinges. As the Calci
leapt for him once again, Boyd clubbed it across the face with the metal door,
blood and teeth flying from its head. The Calci fell
onto its back, mouth hung open whilst its tongue flopped from its mouth and its
limbs went limp.
That’s it! Finish him! Finish him!
Boyd moved in for the kill, casting the door aside.
He reached the Calci. Time for this fucker to die, he
concluded.
The creature had other ideas, foot lashing out to
strike Boyd in the knee. He shouted in pain and fell forward. The Calci rolled out of the way, and Boyd struck the deck, face
down, clutching his knee. He rolled onto his back, only for his opponent to
straddle his chest. With a glint of its bloodied teeth, its jaw snapped shut on
his shoulder, teeth tearing through cloth, skin and muscle with savage ease. He
howled as blood spouted from the wound, filling the ghoul’s mouth.
No! Boyd! No! Please! You can’t die here! We can’t die here!
Breathing shallow, losing feeling in his extremities,
Boyd lay there, the Calci
teeth in his shoulder. He could hear Stanztrigger
firing. He could hear the pitch of the Hammer’s engines change as Tatiana took
control. He could hear the Tower’s
klaxons. The space between their shrieks was almost a continual wail. They were
almost out of time.
Then, out of the darkness, a new sensation. A sweet, zesty smell that spelt the tingle of citrus on the tongue
and the sting of juice in bitten fingertips. Satsumas. Satsumas … and
something else. Pine.
The Calci’s jaws slackened, then the teeth left Boyd’s shoulder. With the last, fading ebb of his consciousness, Boyd lifted his head as the rent muscles in his neck flared in pain. With a slack mouth, limp limbs and a glazed eye, the Calci sat up, falling onto its haunches with its hands in its lap.
The gun! Go for its gun!
Half blind and guided by instinct, Boyd reached for
the Calci’s belt, and the pistol stuffed inside.
Fingers weak and hands trembling, he took it and, with his sight failing, he
emptied the weapon into the Calci’s head. Its body
flopped backward, slumping to the deck with only the name on its parka—Chaff—to
identify it.
Don’t say I never do anything for you.
Satsumas and pine. Already Boyd’s strength was coming back and his senses clearing. With jerky movements, he touched his face. It was tacky, with a thick, sticky film on his skin. Looking at his finger tips he saw a clear, thick solution that glinted in the artificial light. He’d seen that sheen before.
Back on Parlour. Back in the library. Back in her library.
“Portia?” he said, his voice an incredulous whisper.
The gentle laugh oozed about his head.
#
The Tower’s
death-throws began below the water-line. Engineering went up first, the
hydrogen powered reactors achieving critical mass and taking out the bottom of
the ship in an explosive furore. As the explosion decimated the bottom of the
tower, as the water in the lagoon flared orange and white below the murky
water, as chunks of the ship’s hide erupted from the surface and lanced into
the air, the Tower began to topple.
A second explosion was barely contained beneath the
water, its report muffled by the lagoon. As the remains of the Tower then plummeted into the water, it
cracked and vanished in a sphere of fire and shattered metal that lit the
island in a brief, fierce flash, only for the flaming debris to be swallowed by
leaping, hissing water as the wreckage plummeted to the bottom of the lagoon.
The boom and concussion of the explosion tore across the island, shredding the
quaking trees and throwing the ash on the ground into a choking wave.
This wave of ash swept out over the beach, consuming
the Troika. In the cutter’s
flight-deck, Katarina turned away from the ash that burst through the smashed
canopy, enveloping her as she squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face in the
nape of her arms, coughing.
The wave of debris began to settle almost as quickly
as it had devoured the island, and the coughing Katarina grasped the mic of her comm set once more.
“Come in Boyd. Do you copy, over? Come in, Boyd. Do you read me, over?”
Her voice was trembling, and so was she. Up to her
waist in water, she was so cold she hand begun to lose the feeling in her legs.
Her hands shook violently, and her lower lip bled as she chewed it.
She paused, looking out over the beach. A haze of ash
hung over the beach, bleaching out colour and muffling the sound of the howling
wind, of the thunder, and of the deep throb of colossal engines that made her
teeth vibrate. Looking up, looking over the pall of ash, she could see the
black clouds that hid the sky parting as a white, jaded mass begin to emerge.
“Boyd, please. Are you there?” Her tiny voice was almost lost in the dim.
“Boyd? Tatiana?”
Finally the clouds dissipated, consumed by intakes, vents
and docking bays that punctuated a vast expanse of bone—crafted into the
underbelly of a starship—which blotted out the sky.
It was scarred and cracked, and fires burnt within its dreadful mass.
Spotlights lanced from the ship’s underbelly, sweeping the cowering island
beneath, and troopships—those all too familiar troopships built to look like sheep
skulls—began to pour from its hangars and docking bays.
“Is anybody there?” Katarina asked in despair as she
stared as the apparition in the sky. Where was Ivan? Vast?
Stalin? They’d been here when she’d regained consciousness. They’d promised her
they’d be back, and then they’d vanished into the Troika, muttering about ‘repairing it’ and instructing her to
‘raise Boyd’. So where were they now? “Please. Is there anybody there? Anybody at all?”
The answer was metronomic and uniform. At first they
were a vague outline in the curtain of ash, the impression of the bodies
solidifying as they emerged from the haze. Skeletal warriors, row upon row of
them, moving with perfect synchronisation and purpose, their bodies boosted by
grafts of metal and cybernetic joints, their weapons trained on the Troika. Katarina’s shoulders sagged at
the sight of them, hands falling into the chill water as her head sank.
It was all over. Crepitus
was here, and he had them.
The Valentine Chronicles
will continue with Bad Blood
© 2008 Mathew David
Spaull. All rights reserved.