Determination (25 page)

“Maybe they didn’t lay down the wisest laws. Have you never entertained that possibility?”

“Of course I have,” Baku said with a nod. “It’s part of being a Creator. However, there are pros and cons to all laws. It’s all about balance, give and take. Everything is connected, so all decisions affect others. It’s why it was so difficult for gods to come to an agreement.”

“Well Vancor and many others want to rewrite laws without another war between gods.”

“So you make it a war between mortals instead,” Baku said unhappily.

“My history lessons made it perfectly clear how much of a waste of energy a divine war would be.”

“You do know that changing the laws governing the mortal realm require us to start all over again, don’t you?”

“Not this time,” Nexus said with a grin. “I’ll be changing only one thing.”

“And what will that be?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll decide after I’m a Creator. I’ll pull out some old threads and weave in new ones. My allies have all expressed the changes they wish to see. I’ll pick what I agree with most and make it be so.”

Baku’s stomach did a flop. No wonder so many had been eager to side with Nexus. Even he would have if there was a way around dire repercussions and this war wasn’t a part of the bargain.

But those threads Nexus hoped to rip out and replace... it wouldn’t go seamlessly. History had proven that much. “I doubt anyone but you will get exactly what they want from this prophecy.”

“Well, then that’s just too bad for them. I’ve worked very hard and very carefully on my prophecy. Vancor was quite satisfied with the results. Maybe your fears are unfounded.

“I hope we never find out.” As much as Baku wanted to go to Thanatos and beg him to free Roxie, alive, such words would be a waste. It was all up to Roxie and her ability to wield Frava.

*     *     *

All alone, no helmet to communicate with, Oemaru battled the manticore Brevelan. He was slowly making his way among friend and foe towards where he’d started before taking to the sky, doing his best to zigzag and mask his general direction. If the manticore caught on, chances were this war would unfold far from how he and Vancor had envisioned. This was supposed to be his glorious, decisive battle, the culmination of his entire career, but now he was bleeding from puncture wounds in his shoulders, and his back ached from getting dashed against the ground, all thanks to the manticore. He still managed to keep Brevelan out of melee range with his starcallers, but he was slowly tiring.

Every now and then, someone else would try to kill him. Oemaru cut them down with his spinning blades, sending heads and limbs rolling. Brevelan charged in every time and Oemaru sent him retreating with a fresh cut. The manticore was bleeding from many places but seemed unfazed, yet not eager to add to his injuries.

Oemaru snuck a glance over his shoulder. There they were!

Maybe two hundred strides away sat four bulky, pyramid-shaped machines with flat tops. The ivory towers. Used only during surface combat as an HQ, yet packing one major round of explosive power each, the ivory towers could turn this basin into a crater. It wouldn’t be the most artful of victories but it’d make this war quick and decisive. Winning by any means trumped winning with style.

Brevelan flew overhead and Oemaru kept his starcallers between them as he strafed other fighters. The manticore landed between him and the ivory towers and charged. Oemaru sent his blades out to meet him, but the manticore rolled and sprung back to his feet. A clawed hand as big as Oemaru’s elongated head came down on him, sending fire through his shoulder and the ground up to meet his face. He bounced off rock and saw stars that weren’t part of outer space. He lay there, dazed, with a familiar whirring noise over his head.

That whirring...

Realizing what it was, Oemaru surged to his feet and staggered, his head pounding. That whirring was his starcallers reacting to his vitals, going into blackout alert mode. They orbited their owner in such instances, fending off attackers in a tight pattern. To his relief, they had kept the manticore off him long enough to regain his senses and footing, but now he was disoriented and losing way too much blood from one shoulder. Tapping a button in the wrist of his jump suit, bio gel sped to the bloodiest part of his uniform and coated his wounds with cold, numbing relief. He’d need real medical attention after all this but the bio gel would prevent him from bleeding to death.

He shook out his head and faced Brevelan, who looked like he was trying to calculate how to get past the starcallers without taking a hit.

Relocating the towers, Oemaru pressed forward, forcing the manticore backwards. This was so much easier than back-stepping the whole way.

Oemaru cut the distance down to a hundred strides when he recognized a trio of his own men charging towards him, plasma guns drawn. Once they were fifty strides away, they opened fire on Brevelan. The manticore roared as plasma bolts seared his back and one wing. He beat his wings, sending the rounds off trajectory, and flew off. Oemaru sent his starcallers after him. Brevelan dodged several attacks as he gained altitude and distance, but Oemaru buried one spinning blade deep into the manticore’s arm, sending a spray of crimson blood into the air, and the arm dangled at an unnatural angle. Brevelan seized his forearm and ripped his limb off just above the elbow, and let the severed piece drop.

Oemaru gaped. Sure there were creatures in the universe with varying degrees of regenerative ability, but to watch a beast tear off its own arm?

Familiar voices called his name. His trio of soldiers ran to him, shooting down any who attacked, and waved him over. Oemaru recalled his blades, keeping them near, and ran up the slope.

“Sir! It’s a relief to see you alive. We thought you went down with your Sky Fang.”

“Not this Neo-Joso,” he said, pointing to his chest with a pale thumb. “To the ivory towers. We need to end this war. Call our men back behind the front lines.”

“Sir?” another said.

“There’s too much chaos going on. I didn’t come here to throw away your lives.”

“What about our allies?”

“They can rot in the eight circles of the abyss. We need our victory, and fast.”

“Yes, sir.”

The four of them ran up and climbed into the nearest tower, which had a huge cannon on top, pointing skyward. They seated themselves inside the cramped interior full of screens and computer panels. They could see a full three hundred and sixty degrees on the wraparound display screens. Stowing his blades back in his hip pouch, Oemaru seated himself in the Captain’s chair and began flipping a series of switches.

“How long does it take for the ivory towers to heat up? We’ve never had to fire them before.”

“About one minacyle, sir. Enough time to recall our troops.”

“Good.” One soldier closed the door and the tower shook with a series of thuds as sturdy legs sprouted from all four corners, digging into the ground and providing extra stability.

“Minimum range is about the edge of this rock, sir,” the soldier on his right said. “We’ll get rattled by shockwaves if we don’t hit solid ground. The towers can’t aim too close as a safety feature, but we’re taking a gamble.”

“There’s no reward without risk,” Oemaru said.

The ivory tower shook again and Oemaru braced his hands on the control panel.
What was
--? A one-armed manticore filled up an entire screen as it raked the tower’s exterior. More manticores latched on and began clawing the metal as well, and more beasts attacked the other three towers.

“Begin the countdown! We need only one shot!”

Chapter 18

Being a Creator

“Enemies at six o’ clock!” Whitman shouted. “Open fire!”

Roger aimed his rifle at the jet in front him and unloaded on one of the glowing twin barrels. Molten ammunition shot over his head and the barrel broke off with a small explosion. A surge of relief filled him as he shot at the other barrel. His enemies weren’t impervious to his weapon. Shouldering a bazooka, Whitman fired. The round left a smoke trail, exploded on a barrel, and the jet rocked as it continued firing with its other gun.

Manticores took off, flying under the line of fire and bashing into the jets with their claws and large bodies. Several manticores were shot down as pilots adjusted their aim. Fellow soldiers returned fire as the jets mowed down Roger’s allies with glowing ammunition.

Jet fire arced towards Roger and Whitman. They dived in opposite directions and resumed return fire. Manticores, flapping their huge wings, forced two jets to bump into each other. Engines whined as the pilots tried to counter the beasts, but their wings clipped each other, sending them spinning. The manticores leapt onto other jets as the spinning two sank out of sight.

One of Whitman’s bazooka rounds hit a jet just right in the belly, making it explode. He let out a war cry and pumped his fist in the air. “Got what you deserved, you bastard!” He reloaded and ran up to the edge of the rock.

Roger went wide-eyed. Whitman put himself wide out in the open with such positioning, but he shouldered his bazooka and aimed at the jets that had spun out.

“Someone’s going out with a bang!” His body flinched as he fired and an explosion billowed up, blocking out the stars and the expansive blackness. Whitman shifted his aim and fired at the second jet. “Someone’s got a friend joining him in goin’ out in style!” He fired again and a second column of smoke and fire billowed up.

“Whitman!” Roger yelled. “Please come back, sir!” Normally he wouldn’t question his superior’s actions, much less advise them on their positioning; they did what they did because they knew what they were doing, and when they told Roger what to do, he obeyed without question. However, Whitman standing alone and in the open went against all military training. Maybe his superior had gotten lost in the heat of the moment and needed bringing back to focus.

“Never pick on Earth’s soldiers, you bastards. We’ve got more guts and honor than the likes of you. Who’s next?”

“Fleet Admiral Whitman!”

Without turning around, Whitman waved for Roger to be quiet.

The jets drifted higher in the air and the engines rose in pitch, sounding like they were building up RPMs.

Whitman fired his last round, putting a hole in a jet but it didn’t explode. He dumped the weapon, drew two handguns from his hips, took aim, but hesitated. The jets were out of range.

Tails rising, the jets surged forward as one, scoring lines of death through the battlefield with their molten ammunition, the roar of their engines trailing behind them.

Whitman ran over to Roger, guns pointed at the ground and a frown on his face. “Damn cowards.” He scanned the battlefield and holstered his weapons. “Keep an eye on them. Make sure they aren’t gonna loop around and come at us from behind again.”

“Yes, sir.” Rifle in hand, Roger watched the jets with his binoculars. They flew over the front lines, all the way to the far end, then alternated between rising or sinking, turned a hundred and eighty degrees, and evened out their altitude. Roger informed Whitman of their change of direction and waited to see if they sank below the edge of the battlefield, but they didn’t even look like they were moving. “Sir, I think they’ve gone stationary.” Roger lowered his binoculars. The jets looked like a line of dashes.

“Something else must be coming. That’s the only reason I can think of that’d make them clear our air space.”

A glowing object that looked like white straws atop boxes drew Roger’s attention to one far corner of the battlefield. He looked again with his binoculars. The straws were cannons pointing at the thunderstorm, and the boxes were pyramid-shaped tanks without visible wheels. Manticores clawed at all four tanks, tearing them up. “Sir!” Roger pointed to the tanks. “I don’t think those things launch fireworks.”

“Yeah, they look like they pack quite the wallop,” Whitman said mildly. “Hopefully our magical allies can defend against something like that. We don’t have any fallout shelters. Mishitan!” He looked around. “Mishitan!” The manticore was nowhere in sight. Whitman swore and ran up to the line of soldiers in front of them, a mix of gunners and spell casters from two different worlds. “Hey! Everyone look!” He pointed to the tanks. Their allies paused in their shooting and he pointed again. “We’ve got big trouble. We need something to take those out or someone to defend us from whatever they are.”

Their allies squinted at the straw-sized cannons. Whitman held out his binoculars. “Whoever has telepathy better start talkin’.”

*     *     *

Oemaru clenched his jaw as his ivory tower shook with jolt after jolt as the manticores pounded and shredded the exterior. The other three were warming up and getting assaulted as well, and this was turning out to be one of the longest minacycles of his life. He watched helplessly as manticores pounded on the cannon to his right, making it bend under their sheer brute strength. Oemaru’s back ached from thinking about how hard Brevelan had bashed him into the ground. If Oemaru had any broken bones, adrenaline and bio gel blocked the pain.

The bent cannon teetered as a trio of manticores repeatedly threw their weight at it. The cannon broke off with a deep, metallic snap and toppled into the cannon behind it with a screech before hitting the ground with a booming thud. Oemaru and two of his soldiers lowered their heads to the control panels and looked up. The second had a huge dent and was slightly bent. Oemaru pressed a com button. “Mekka team, abort countdown. I repeat, abort countdown. Your cannon has taken crippling damage.”

“Echo that, sir. Aborting countdown.”

“Everyone on Mekka and Nona squads file out and protect the last two towers. Our countdown has thirty minicycles left.” Oemaru ordered all but one soldier out as he donned his starcaller gloves. His men wordlessly filed out and he followed, grabbing a plasma pistol on the way out. Molten ammunition might prove more effective against the manticores; however, he had to use
some
style to gain victory.

His men opened fire and several manticores leapt off the towers. One went down in a spray of blood and plasma, and a second landed on top of his men, crushing their bodies under huge paws. A gun continued firing outwards. The manticore tore away the gun at the soldier’s elbow and tossed both limb and weapon aside. Other soldiers shot the beast down, turning its face and arms into blackened meat.

A roar came from one of the cannons. A one-armed manticore--Brevelan--bared his teeth at them.

Oemaru stepped forward. “That one’s mine. Everyone protect the towers.” His men faced off with a dozen more manticores as Brevelan met his gaze. The beast spread his wings and dived. Oemaru sent his blades out as bullet fire rained on the tower. A few rounds clipped the manticore. He flinched and veered behind the tower. Heart pounding, Oemaru ran around to meet him, hoping the tower would hold up just a little longer, along with provide him with some cover.

Right as he reached the rear flank, the canon’s hum grew lower in pitch until it went dead silent. Oemaru swallowed. He was down to one tower. The soldier he’d ordered to remain inside shouted through the speaker system, confirming that the computer systems had been knocked offline. He ordered the soldier to join his comrades and held his starcallers close overhead as he watched Brevelan land twenty strides away. The manticore beat his wings, blasting Oemaru with a gust of air and throwing him against the tower. He shook out his head and ran back around.

Brevelan could’ve done that this whole time, but he’d chosen not to. Why? Because of being surrounded by so many friends and foes? Had he been playing it safe? Maybe. Oemaru had equipment that allowed him to fight in weather extremes, including wind, but that had been destroyed with his Sky Fang. He was going to have to rely on his wits and training to survive this.

There had to be mere minicycles left before the last tower fired. Its hum drowned out nearby fighting as it rose in pitch. The glow at the end of the cannon cast a white light over the battlefield, making his skin look like it was glowing. The red sandstone grew pale and Brevelan studied the ivory tower.

A computer’s voice warned them all of the impending cannon fire and began a countdown in a female voice. “Ten... nine... eight...”

Brevelan launched into the air and bashed into the cannon, shoulder first, and recoiled, clutching his side as smoke emanated form his fur. The cannon shaft was building enough heat to melt rock into glass.

“Seven... six... five...”

Brevelan leapt to one of the legs stabilizing the tower and wrestled with it. Two more manticores joined him but the tower didn’t budge. Oemaru sent his starcallers after them, aiming for their wings.

“Four... three... two...”

The blades gouged holes in both of Brevelan’s wings and severed one from another beast. They merely flinched and continued wrestling.

“One...”

The ivory tower fired with a thunderous bang and blinding flash of light. The ground shook and Oemaru could hear nothing but a ringing in his ears as he staggered. He clamped his hands over his ears, round slits in the sides of his head. When his vision returned, he saw that everyone, friend and foe, stood with their ears covered and blinking.

A white comet of plasma energy surged upwards, glowing with the intensity of a star, turning the grey storm clouds white. The plasma flew out of sight and the storm turned grey, casting the battlefield back in a muddy amber light. Minicycles later, the white light returned, shining down on the other army.

*     *     *

Roger’s stomach dropped to his feet as whatever that glowing thing was fell towards the back line. Probably a bomb. It had to be the size of a city block. There was no way he could survive such an explosion on his own. His life began to flash before him. The talk with Baku, the talk with his uncle, his time in the military, the loss of his sister, time spent in church.
At least I’ll die knowing more about how the universe works, and while having fought for a good cause.
He had no regrets.

Hundreds of winged women, the Pneuma, darted skyward from all over the battlefield like a flock of human-sized fairies taking off. They gathered below the bomb and began forming a net with their bodies, grabbing an ankle on two different Pneuma and hovering in place. A magical shield grew inside their formation and shimmered like a bubble, and the bomb’s light turned the storm clouds white. The Pneuma formed a bowl-shaped net with their bodies, and the bomb landed inside their magic barrier with a sizzling thud. The Pneuma and bomb sank but the women forced it towards the lip of the asteroid.

Before they could carry it over the edge, the bomb exploded, engulfing them in blinding white light. Roger reflexively covered his head and crouched as intense heat warmed the air. A muted boom came from the explosion, but no shockwave or blast of wind. His heart pounded in his ears and his exposed skin felt like it was getting sunburned.

When the light faded back to muddy amber, Roger chanced removing his hands and looked up. He gaped. The bomb and Pneuma were suspended midair, both looking like they were made of molten glass. Steam rose off them like a smoking volcano. The bomb was a smooth sphere with lines in it like a marble, and all the Pneuma stuck in their final poses.

The magic shield disintegrated and the bomb crashed through the bottommost women, shattering their bodies. Soldiers below ran, but dozens got crushed and the bomb cracked on impact, making the ground shake, then teetered over the edge and broke into several house-sized chunks as it continued falling. The Pneuma’s bodies fell and shattered, and many joined the bomb in drifting through outer space. Whatever gravity affecting the asteroid didn’t extend far beyond the edge.

Roger sent a silent thank you to those women and stood up straight, rifle in hand. He’d honor their sacrifice with everything he had. Whitman straightened up as well, expression somber but gun ready.

Movement in a cloudless part of the sky caught Roger’s attention. A huge, reptilian head appeared like a projector had been turned on, casting its image on a domed, unseen screen. The transparent image solidified and a gargantuan snake--no, dragon!--fell like a huge streamer that’d broken off from where it’d been taped up. Roger tensed as he anticipated the painful landing on an empty patch of rock a mile away. The dragon landed in a coiled heap, head first, and didn’t move.

*     *     *

The three of them were still in Nexus’s private chamber when his skin suddenly turned forest green and he grew to twelve feet tall. Nexus went wide-eyed and braced his hands against the ceiling, leaning back as he kneeled. Kara and Baku backed away. Horns, claws, and a tail sprouted from his body, and his broad, sculpted chest heaved with every breath. He looked like Leviathan’s bipedal form. Had...?

Closing his eyes, Nexus took a deep breath and his draconic features dissolved like fog getting carried away in wind. The green changed back to human skin tones and he shrunk back to his normal height. He got to his feet and gave them a triumphant smile. “I have worlds of my own at last.”