“Found it.” Ilisa sounded desperate and breathless as she interrupted Strom's trance, before she let out an involuntary wail when she saw Olaf's wound; almost as if subconsciously accepting his fate. But her conscious was not going to give up yet. She attached nodes to Olaf's chest, just over where his heart would be. These nodes were connected to the box that she held in her hand, and were designed to administer an electrical pulse each to get the heart started again. Strom looked at the wound; even if the bullet had missed his heart, he knew Olaf wouldn't live. He knew it. But even if there was a slim chance, even if it was just time to say goodbye...
The machine beeped and Olaf's body jerked a little, but Strom's scanner showed no pulse. Ilisa looked at him expectantly, but Strom's eyes must have told her all she needed to know. She tried again and again, the body just jerking up each time, with the finger slamming the reviver harder and harder before she dropped the box and fell to her knees beside her fallen brother.
The ship jolted suddenly and a Reaper flew past. Strom looked out of the cockpit and saw burn marks across the side of the ship; bullets had grazed Ilisa's Stinger. Strom clipped his helmet back on. “The Reapers are back!” he called to Ilisa, who was clipping her helmet on too. Strom's breathing became irregular and rapid as something welled up inside him, replacing his grief. “I'm gonna make them pay.”
“Strom, no!” Ilisa made to grab him, but he had already opened the cockpit and pushed away from her ship.
As he floated through space towards his Stinger, he forgot his previous fears and latched onto the right wing before dragging himself into the cockpit, closing the canopy and starting the ship up abruptly, not even bothering to strap in as he followed the trail of the Reaper. “Strom. Strom, come back!” Ilisa yelled over the com, but he ignored her, turning the com off completely; no need for distractions: he was a thruster down and chasing after a skilled pilot.
The pilot must have known Strom was after him now, because the Reaper suddenly went into a nosedive straight down to the planet. Strom followed, trying to get lock a missile onto the bastard, but failing every time. The Reaper was easily outpacing him as it entered the atmosphere; Strom's ship hissed as he too entered the atmosphere: the airlock unlocked to save on the Stinger's oxygen supply. The Reaper straightened out once more, flying at a standard level above a small town. Strom struggled to follow and found himself flying through the town. This town seemed relatively unscathed by the conflict; only a few buildings seemed to have scored hits and the residents were outside trying to help those who had been hurt. That behaviour would never be seen in Tapal, but Raanian life was very different if you lived in a town. Now, all these people stared up at the out of control Stinger as it stormed between the buildings. Some people ducked as it went past, the slipstream ruffling their hair. The left wing caught on a building, tearing a chunk out of both wing and window, and sent the Stinger spiralling further, Strom slamming the Stinger into the opposite direction while focusing intently on the escaping Reaper. The Stinger gradually came back to his control as he barely managed to avoid hitting the buildings on the main street, but a violent swerve sent him heading down a tight side road. Knowing he couldn't make it, he angled the ship by ninety degrees, so that the wings were aligned vertically. The cockpit scraped along one of the buildings, throwing brick dust in small splatters across the canopy, obscuring Strom's vision. He emerged from the side road and into another main street, before pulling up and rising higher and higher until he found the Reaper again.
The pilot had got pretty far, and it hadn't become complacent in Strom's absence, putting a lot of distance between the two. Strom looked on the radar and followed the rough trajectory of the Reaper: it was heading to Tapal. Even after Xaos had doomed the coastal towns to burn, he still wanted to smash Raan's capital. Strom fired at the Reaper; he was sure to hit it eventually. He had to: life for a life.
And they would have hit, if the pilot hadn't retracted the wings; they appeared to fold up into the body of the Reaper, causing the missiles, not being locked on to anything, to fly past. Strom cursed; he'd never seen that before. Perhaps this wasn't a standard Reaper after all. The Reaper, without its wings, seemed to be going faster and faster, gaining speed as it went. The engines whined as Strom pushed them to their limits and still barely keeping up. He couldn't believe the speed on this Reaper, it was faster than any small vessel he had seen before. He turned the com on again. “Ilisa, are you seeing this?”. He sounded more curious than angered now.
She sounded flustered when she spoke again. “Is that the bastard who killed Olaf?”
“Yes.” Strom's voice was level and resolute.
“Then it doesn't matter what sort of ship it is, we'll take it down!” Ilisa's Stinger drew up level with Strom's now, he could see Olaf's head behind Ilisa's; obviously the body was behind the pilot's seat now.
“And then we can bury Olaf.”
Ilisa's voice faltered. “No, Strom. Cremate; that's how my parents went.”
Strom bowed his head; Ilisa's parents had been killed years ago in one of the first Northern riots in Tapal. Hundreds were killed, both Northerners and Southerners, in the riot, one of the bloodiest that the city had ever seen. Since then, the riots seemed only like aftershocks after a quake.
Strom engaged thrusters again, and tore after the modified Reaper, Ilisa at his side. The Reaper was moving left and right in a lazy attempt to avoid Strom's target lock. Strom concentrated, tweaking the Stinger's path until finally the target screen beeped, and Strom launched two missiles.
But no missiles launched.
He pushed the button again, in case it was stuck. Nothing. A wave came over him, and he roared in a mixture of fury and anguish, before he punched the target screen, cracking the glass. He buried his head in his hands and muttered to himself. As his hands grew slick with tears, he mumbled “Failed you...” quietly, before he heard Ilisa.
“Strom!” She sounded urgent. “The Reaper's turned back around!”
Strom looked up and saw the streamlined Reaper, wings still folded in, coming straight at him. Frantically manoeuvring, his Stinger barrel-rolled to the left, narrowly avoiding the kamikaze assault. “Take it down, Ilisa!”
“I can't get a lock! And if I miss, I'll hit you; it's too close!”
Strom saw the Reaper open fire on his craft, but the Stinger couldn't move out of the way quick enough and an explosion threw Strom to the side, out of his seat. Checking another screen, he realised that the Reaper had just destroyed his other thrusters. With a sudden dullness in his heart, he came to the conclusion that he could go nowhere but down. He watched as Ilisa fired upon the Reaper and felt satisfied as it exploded, further and further away.
In a plume of smoke and fire, the Stinger screamed its way through a skyscraper, before burying itself in the atrium of another. The wreckage opened and Strom fell out, barely alive. Just in sight, rimmed with red, he could see Ilisa's Stinger land, and she leapt out of it and ran over to him.
“Strom!”
She was safe. Strom relaxed.
As his eyes closed, Strom looked past her and saw Olaf, standing straight with an open hand; beckoning.
Darkness.
Chapter 13
Trexor 3
“Space team, disengage and evacuate as many people as you can from the north coast!” The base was frantic, with Trexor, Fairns and the other generals yelling commands to other military units across Raan; many were beginning some sort of evacuation, but where was safe? “Send them to Ketin.” Ketin was a smaller city than Tapal, but it had not been targeted by the Xaosians yet. Trexor put the com-unit down, before turning to Fairns. “How bad are the fires?”
Fairns shook his head. “The worst glimpse of hell that a man should ever see.”
“What about Raan? Could it...” Trexor's words caught in his throat. “Could what Xaos said be right?” Looking around, he lowered his voice and said, “Could Raan be destroyed?”
; Fairns flexed his fingers nervously, and they cracked like mini explosions. “Come with me.”
Trexor followed him through the base. All around were injured personnel, unable to go anywhere else. Doctors were with them, but they could not keep up with the demand. The able personnel were rushing around, gathering supplies, before booting up ancient Dropships. The Dropships were deemed unnecessary in Tapal, due to both the peacetime and the apparent deterrent of the military-base. But now, they would aid in the evacuation effort. Trexor watched as they rose into the air, whining as they did so.
Eventually, Fairns led Trexor into a small room, where three men sat at a screen; Irinian, judging by their shimmering skin. Upon hearing the door open, one man stood up clumsily and saluted. “Admiral Fairns, sir!”
“Stand down.” Fairns seemed annoyed at the young man's sign of respect. “What's the situation?”
“Worse than we thought, Admiral.” The man who spoke pointed at the screen. On the screen was a geological cross-section of Raan, showing the Sea of Oil at the very top. “As you can see in this simulation,” he pressed a button on the screen's console and the oil lit up in flames, “as this part the Sea of Oil ignites, it soon spreads and the entire sea is aflame.” He looked at Fairns and Trexor, who nodded slowly. He pointed at a small black crack which ran from the Sea of Oil to deep in the planet's core. “It's this fissure which is the problem; yes, it stops seismic activity across the planet, and I thank the Adjeti for thinking of that idea, but if the flames spread into there, it could, and I stress, could, cause a chain reaction and ignite the inner layers of the planet.”
“And how would that affect us?” Fairns was flexing his fingers again.
The man faltered, so the silent one answered, “We don't know.”
“You don't know?” Trexor's growl put a spark of fear in the Irinians' eyes. “I want an idea, something! What. Could. Happen?”
“Worst case scenario? The planet ignites and everything on it dies.” Trexor felt his face fall as a sudden cold rushed through him.
“And the best-case?” Fairns asked, voice wavering.
“A few minor earthquakes.” The Irinian smiled as he said so, as if he had delivered good news.
Trexor grabbed the Irinian by the throat and raised him off the ground. The other two retreated to the side. “Wipe that smile off your face, you little shit. Even one quake could level this city; those skyscrapers were built for convenience, not to withstand disaster.” The Irinian fell to the ground, clutching his throat as Trexor released him. “Fairns, what do we do?” Trexor's face fell, eyes and mouth drooping as he realised the hopelessness of the situation.
“More evacuations seems like the only cause of action.” Fairns cracked his knuckles again, wincing this time. “But we don't have the resources.”
“Then the people will have to make do with an old method.” Trexor marched out of the small room and into the bustling command hub. Clapping his hands to get attention, he roared to the crowd, “You lot! Get your arses in gear! Sound the alarms, we need everyone evacuated and onto the farms outside the city! We have reports that the buildings could collapse at any point; we need to save as many people as possible. Now, go!”
*
The alarms rang and rang and rang through the day. Soldiers ran, kicking doors down and dragging families from their homes, seeming to the unwitting eye like the invaders that had doomed their planet. Trexor jogged towards a skyscraper unscathed by the Xaosian attack; it was at the furthest northern edge of the city. All around, curses and slurs were written boldly in once-bright paint; a stain on even this part of the city. As his eyes darted subconsciously around, he remembered the last time he had been this far north. He rubbed a hand over his back and winced; the pain had never went away and never will: part of the knife's blade was jammed into his right lung; removing it could kill him. Instead, Trexor adopted to have an artificial expansion to his lung, effectively replacing the damaged section. He hated this place. Glass cracked underfoot, bricks clattered away from his footfalls and the needles and knives strewn around would have pierced his foot, had it not been for the steel-soled boots.
One of those boots sent the atrium door of its hinges, and it clattered to the floor. Inside, there was no light; the power for this district was probably knocked out, or rerouted to the military-base. “Torches on.” he said to the five other soldiers with him. “Spread out; I'll take this floor, you can take the others.” The ground floor was always the heaviest populated; to give the skyscrapers some sort of stability, the ground floor acted as a large base for the spire to sit atop. Once the others had gone into the elevator shaft, Trexor heard them activate their climbing gear; elevator shaft was the only way up.
Knocking on the first door, Trexor heard no reply. “Anyone home?” No reply still, but a scratching sound instead. Frowning, Trexor went to knock on the door again, and it fell backwards and onto the ground with a dull thud, throwing up a small dust cloud. The torchlight helped to illuminate a path ahead of him, and he saw a pile of boxes stacked in a corner. Making sure no-one was looking, he inched ever-closer to them; something about them felt wrong to him. After clipping his torch onto his shoulder, he pulled the top one off of the pile and opened it. Dozens of bags of white powder were inside, each marked with a red feather. “Bloodhawks...” Trexor muttered to himself; whoever lived there was evidently a high-ranking member of the Bloodhawks, one of the three major gangs that operated in the North.
Thud.
Trexor turned abruptly, drawing his pistol from its holster, setting it to stun; no need for more killing today. “I know you're there, now come on out.” He saw something shine in the kitchen-doorway and lurched back just in time for a knife to slam into one of the boxes, spilling the powder over the floor. Trexor backed behind a chair and kept his gun pointed at the doorway.
“My quarrel is not with you.” His attacker spoke in a soft voice. “In fact, all I have done is get rid of a criminal; you should be thanking me.”
Trexor turned his light onto the speaker; tall, slim, bald, but there was a faint scar which arced from his left ear to his nose. He stood, and looked at the man. “Remember me?”
The man cocked his head and smiled. “Ah, General. I never forget a face, and you put up...” he paused and stroked his scar, “more of a fight than others.”
“And you failed your mission.” Trexor said bluntly; this man, Trexor found out months after his attack, was a member of the Assassins: a group of mercenaries for silent murders. This man was Trem Naylar, one of the lower echelon members. “I still have part of your knife in my shoulder, you know?”
Trem smirked and exhaled as if amused. “I don't like an unfinished job.” He drew a small pistol from a holster on his thigh and fired at Trexor.
The bullet barely missed Trexor's head as he jerked to the side. Growling, Trexor drew his own sidearm and took a shot at where Trem was, but he had vanished. Trexor cursed; letting an assassin out of your sight was tantamount to suicide. Deciding it was useless, Trexor put his gun away and drew his sword instead; a better defence against a close-range attack, as there would be no point trying to defend against a gunshot he can't hear. “What now?” Trexor called, walking over to the door. “I could just walk away right now.”
No answer.
Trexor pushed the door closed. “But now we can't.”
“It's like you want me to finish the job.” Trem's voice echoed round the room. “But I would like my blade back.”
A shadow leapt at Trexor, but he put his sword up in the way, and forced Trem back, before kicking his feet out from beneath him. Trem slashed with the knife, but it caught on Trexor's armour. Trexor stamped on Trem's wrist, and the knife dropped to the ground. Pinning him to the cold floor, Trexor hissed in his ear, “You want your damn blade back?” Trem struggled, but Trexor twisted his arm around until he gasped in pain. Sheathing his sword, Trexor used his now-free hand to pick up the dropped knife. “A fine blade.” The handle was gold
en – too heavy for real gold – and had indents in for each of Trem's fingers. The silver spike emerging from the handle was long and thin like a needle, and almost identical to the one still inside Trexor.
Trem twisted his head around and saw Trexor examining the blade. “What are you doing? If you're going to kill me, get on with it!”
Trexor poked Trem's shoulder with the tip of the blade, nicking the skin slightly. A circle of red slowly formed where the skin was cracked. “I won't kill you, you're defenceless.”
Trem smiled. “Even after I try and kill you twice, your honour stops you? That is why we win, General; no regrets.”
“I said I wouldn't kill you.” Trexor slowly eased the blade into Trem's shoulder. Blood began to build up, and Trem's eyes widened.
“General, no. Please.”
Trem screamed in pain as the blade stopped, hitting bone. Trexor hit the blade with the side of his hand, snapping it in two. “Now you can live as I have.” Discarding the knife, Trexor left the room and felt nothing but a dullness within; none of the satisfaction he thought that he would have after dealing with his demon.
A grating sound came from beneath him, and Trexor was thrown to the floor. “Damn...” he muttered. A shelf dropped off of the wall behind him, its contents clattering to the ground. Glass shattered a photoframe fell from its hook. Trexor got up and ran outside, calling for backup.
As he got outside, the grating sound echoed through the area once again, and he flailed his arms to stay upright, but to no avail. When he stood, he looked up to the sky and saw windows shattering, falling glass shards. He dove out of the way, flinging his arms over his head. Moving further away from the skyscraper, he saw that the very top was rocking from side to side. “Get out of the building!” he yelled into his com.