Stargazers: Canaan's Orbit

 Canaan’s Orbit

            Daedalus appears out of dive-space in a flash.  Reality undulates around it in waves of rubbery light that slowly return to fade.  The ship glides smoothly into Canaan’s orbit, matching the planet’s rotation and floating within its gravity.  Captain LeGuin, a tall, broadly built man moving into middle age, stands still, staring out at the planet with an immovable calm.  He has his arms folded behind him, his back straight, and his cap resting perfectly on his head.

            The ship’s pilot looks back at him.  “In orbit, sir, but no responses to our hails.”

            “Anything from our scans?”

            “Facility is dark, sir,” says the navigator.  “But we are picking up a ship in orbit.  It is leaving the atmosphere right now.”

            “Hail the ship,” says Captain LeGuin.  “And follow at a distance.  Get word to Lt. Guinevere.  We will need to be ready, in case things go south.”

            The Comm. Officer salutes and returns to the operations board.

            LeGuin walks forward, running his hand along the rail support.  A raised platform in the center of the helm allows him a view of all operations around him.  From where he stands, he can also see a clear view of Canaan, its surface a gleaming bronze with small, swirling clouds like smeared whip cream.  In the distance, a dark speck floats slowly into and then out of view.

            Daedalus turns, effortlessly, and follows the speck.

            “Sir, they are not responding to our hail,” says the Comm. Officer.  After a prolonged silence, she adds, “I’ve issued them our credentials and requested they halt.”

            “Sir, there are warp distortions,” says the Navigator.  “They are preparing for dive.”

            “I see,” says the captain.  “And how far out are they?”

            The pilot checks her mechanisms and gives a solemn glance back at the captain.  “Too far to catch them before dive, sir.”

            LeGuin frowns.

            “There could be survivors on the surface, sir, and even if we make chase, they’re out of range for our cannons to do any significant damage before they escape,” says the pilot.  She looks ahead again and fixes her hands around the ship’s controls.  “Sir, should we make chase or land?”

            LeGuin rubs his mustache and clears his throat.  “Page all of the armor pilots to the armor bay and call the Lieutenant to the bridge.  We’ll send armors to the surface to check for survivors and make pursuit as far as we can.”

            The bridge’s crew salutes.  “Sir!”  Then, they go about their various tasks.

 

-Stargazers part 1-

 

            Chastity and Arthur are left floating in a cold, steel room.  Arthur is bound and was unconscious for a time.  When he wakes, he complains of a headache and sits up stiffly, now held to the ship by manufactured gravity.  They make sullen eye contact and have little time to themselves before the door slides open and their captor steps in.

            He is still wearing his battle gear, though he now wears his goggles up.  His blade is out, unfolded, and he is cleaning it with a rag in one hand.  Two guards follow him in.  They are wearing a form of black military uniforms, and both carry pistols on their hips and have batons out.

            At their entrance, Chastity shuffles back against the wall.  Arthur stands to meet them, but the guards meet him first.  They push him down into a seated position on the bed, and he offers only a glare in return.

            Their captor, who is clearly the leader, surveys them calmly.  Then, he returns his focus to the blade in his hands.  He is smiling beneath his mask, and it can be heard in his voice.  “I see that you’ve collected yourself, girl.  That is good, because we have much to discuss.”

            Chastity grabs her pants tightly in her hands, holding the fabric knotted between her fingers.  She stares over the man, past him.  The guards might not even exist to her, but he does.  Periodically, she looks at him.  Periodically, she looks at the blade in his hand.

            “The robot—a Guide, isn’t it?  We took it, too, but it’s asleep, inert, and we want to know why.  And you,” he tilts his blade toward her, points with the sharpened tip of it, “are the only one who knows how to make it work.”

            “I don’t know,” Chastity says, quickly.  “We ran the code, over and over again, but we never figured out...”

            “I’m sorry, but that doesn’t sound like the right answer.”  He stares her in the eyes.  “Why don’t you come forward and speak a little more clearly?”

            Chastity gasps, chokes, as one of the guards approaches her.  She curls her legs up to her chest, screams as she retreats.  Hearing her, Arthur stands again to intercept for her, but this time he is stopped with a baton to the knee.  He falls to kneeling before being struck again, in the back this time.

            He falls flat onto the floor.  A spark of electricity sounds through the room.  Face-down, the electrified head of the baton is put to his back, between his shoulder blades, and his body jumps in response.  The second guard joins him, pressing his baton only a few inches away.  Both hold them there until Arthur goes quiet.

            Chastity screams and presses hard against the wall. One of the guards flips Arthur over, onto his back, and then drags him away and to another wall.  The other guard grabs Chastity by the leg and drags her toward the doorway.  She cries, ineffectually, on the way.

            Their leader approaches her and kneels beside her.  He cups her chin with his free hand.  His other hand is fitted, tightly, about the hilt of his weapon.  The blade rests on his knee.  “Now, you shush and listen.  What is your name, girl?”

            “Chastity.  Chastity,” she hiccups and sobs, “Clarke.”

            “I see.  And you’re a doctor, Chastity Clarke?”

            She nods.

            “Good.  Then I want you to stop crying and act like one.  And if you don’t, well,” he pauses, thoughtfully, and then chuckles.  “Well, I’ll make sure to give you something to cry about.  I will beat you, and break you, and rape you until you are so empty inside that nothing else will hurt you again.  Do you want that?”

            Holding her breath, afraid to sob, to gasp, she shakes her head.

            “Then,” he nods toward Arthur, “I’ll have him killed in front of you, just so you have no hope at all, just so you understand how little power you really have.”  He keeps holding her, his hand moving around her neck.  She has stopped crying.  “Good job.  Now, I want you to tell me how to turn the Guide on.  I want you to tell me how to control her.  I want you to tell me anything and everything you know about her.

            “I told you, I don’t know how...”

            He strikes her across the face with his open palm.  It hurts, and it shames, and she has to wipe her eyes and look away before he realizes that she is crying again.

            His hand tightens around her throat.  “Answer me.”  He speaks calmly, without rage or regret, without anything at all.

            “I’m trying to answer you,” she says, calmly and with precision.  “We didn’t know anything.  We just...”

            He stands now and kicks her hard in the stomach.  She doubles over, holding her midsection, coughing and crying again.

            “Don’t you dare start crying again,” he screams, and he stabs downward with his sword, the sharpened end of it planting into the cold steel beside her.

            She goes quiet.  They make eye contact.

            “And don’t you dare keep lying.”

            “I-I’m not lying!”  It hurts to speak.  Her stomach feels like a hot ball of lead was dropped into it, and her jaw is swollen and numb.  Everywhere else, the pain wis spreading, moving through her like sickness.  “Please, you have to believe...”

            “I have to?”  He grabs her by the hair throws her across the floor.  She stops against the door.  “I don’t have to do anything but get information from you.  You’re supposed to be a genius, aren’t you?  Then, why can’t you figure this out?”  He pins her to the wall with his foot, pressing hard on her chest and forcing the air from her.  The more he leans on her, the harder it is for her to breathe.  “Now, talk.”

            “I don’t know anything!”

            The man breathes, deeply.  “I see.  Then,” he lifts the blade, looking at it gleaming in the light.  “Then you know what that means, don’t you?”

            She nods, holding back tears.  In the back of her head, she remembers Cipher, crumbling, fading away inside of her.  Soon, she will follow him, too, and even after experiencing his death firsthand, she is still scared.  She knows, in the core of who she is, that she doesn’t want to die.

            He clicks his tongue.  “Never can be too sure, though.”  He lifts the sword, rests it on his shoulder, and he removes his foot from her chest.  “Boys.”

            The guards lift Arthur up and turn him to face Chastity.  He is dazed.  Drools runs from his lips.  Their leader grabs Chastity by the neck and tosses her forward.  She stops just in front of Arthur, staring up at him.

            The man passes her and rests his sword against Arthur’s shoulder, blade down and angled for his neck.  “Tell me, then, what part would you like, first?”

 

-Stargazers part 1-

 

            Daedalus skims the atmosphere on its way to intercept Paris.  On the way, as it rides the edge of the atmosphere, it opens its bay.  Three Gigas Armors slide from the bay, two Hunter armors equipped with back-mounted Pegasus Rockets for flight, and the third an experimental armor named Mercury.  The three, Mercury leading, slip away from Daedalus and descend toward the planet’s surface.

            Captain LeGuin watches silently from the bridge.  The ship rattles as it pulls from the atmosphere and back out into open space.  Ahead, he watches the rear of Paris continuing to break away, nearing the departure of the planet’s gravity.

            The pilot fixes Daedalus’ trajectory toward Paris and looks back at LeGuin.  “Sir, I’m sorry to say, but the ship is too far ahead.  Even if we burn hot, we won’t be able to meet them before they leave Canaan’s gravity well.  We might not even be able to follow their trail.”

            LeGuin frowns.  “Can we enter range to fire, at least?”

            “Not in time,” says the navigator.  She punches in a few numbers and meets his gaze.  “We’re too far out of range.  Even if we try to lead them, the projectiles wouldn’t reach them in time.  Laser weaponry would diffuse.”  She checks the screen again and frowns.  “I’m sorry, sir, but nothing would land with enough impact to give them pause.”

            LeGuin rubs his mustache and leans onto the handrail.  He stares at Paris.

            “Sir, we’re getting a transmission from Mercury,” the Comm. Officer interrupts.

            LeGuin sighs and stands straight, joining his hands behind his back.  “I see.  Put her through.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            A brief hiss of static, and then Guinevere’s voice comes through the bridge speakers. “Captain, Guinevere.”

            “Yes, Lieutenant?”

            “Our scans indicate no life remaining in the base.  It’s been scorched.”

            LeGuin’s frown deepens.  “I see.”

            “We need to catch the ship, sir.  The Hunters can handle ground recon.  I should take Mercury to intercept the enemy.”

            “Lieutenant, Mercury isn’t even cleared for battle testing yet.  The armor is too light.  We’re trying to test the balance and...”

            “Sir, the test-model is equipped with two hard-light blades.  Their ship is small; it can’t have more than three armors on board.  I may not be able to capture the ship, but I can easily slow it down long enough for you to get a shot in.”

            “I don’t like this, Lieutenant.”

            “Then you shouldn’t have let me take it out in the first place,” Guinever says.  The crew smiles.  She adds, a second later, “Captain.”

            Hiding his own grin, LeGuin rubs his mustache again, frowning carefully as he does.  “Fine,” he says.  “Lieutenant, I’m trusting you.”

            “Sir.”

            LeGuin looks at the Comm. Officer.  “Put me out to the entire crew,” he says, and once given the go ahead, he speaks.  “Everyone, we’re going to be entering ship-to-ship combat.  Our two Hunter armors are to remain on the surface and search for survivors or information.  Mercury will intercept the enemy ship and prevent them from making dive for as long as possible.  Let’s be safe, and let’s see this done.  Captain LeGuin out.

 

-Stargazers part 1-

 

            Lancelot watches her expectantly, his blade resting still on Arthur’s shoulder.  Arthur’s head is down.  Blood pools beneath Arthur, soaking into his pants, clinging to his knees and his boots.  Lancelot reaches down, grabs Arthur by the hair and lifts his face to show Chastity the shallow cuts left there.

            “This is just the beginning,” Lancelot says, venom in his voice.  “Listen and understand the severity of your situation.  Nothing I’ve said is an idle threat.  I will do anything I have to, everything I have to, and I will not regret it.”

            “I-I understand,” Chastity says quickly, her voice choked.  Tears run down her cheeks.

            “Clearly, you do not, because you are still crying.”  He drops Arthur’s head, stomps across the room to grab her by the neck.  “You’re a specialist, brought in to understand that thing in there.  That was your job, your only job, and you’re telling me you know nothing.”  He throws her into the wall and then kneels.  “You’re lying,” he says, pinning her to the door with one hand against her sternum.  “So, listen.  Watch and understand how desperate your situation truly is.”

            Lancelot reaches back and unclips his helmet. He lifts it, smoothly, from his head and lets his long, dark hair cascade down his shoulders and back.  Dropping the helmet there, he turns to Arthur again and paces slowly toward him.

            “Lift him.  Let him see.”

            One guard grips Arthur by the hair and lifts his head.  At first, Arthur winces, but when he sees Lancelot’s face, his brow knits, and his breath catches.  “You.”  His voice is barely a whisper, and he goes limp in the guard’s arms.  “You!”  He wrestles now and ends up pinned to the floor.

            Lancelot smiles, and he turns to face Chastity.  He looks nothing like she expected.  His face is thin, angular, even pretty.  His cheeks are high, his lips thin, and his eyes a vibrant, yellowish green.  He is not scowling anymore, but smiling a feral, hungry smile.  To her, he appears like a wolf on the hunt.  “Now, Jameson, go ahead and tell her who I am.”

            Arthur growls, pushing himself up with his neck.  The guards pin him to the ground again, using their knees to hold him by the back.

            “Tell her what I will do to her.  Tell her that I will get my information one way or another.”

            “She doesn’t know anything,” Arthur shouts, cheek flat against the cold floor.  “Please, Lancelot, she doesn’t know anything!”

            The ship shudders and the guards lose their grip, catching on the walls to steady themselves.  Chastity rolls into a nearby wall.  Lancelot remains stable, widening his stance and turning toward a communication board.  One guard has already made his way there.  The other has Arthur pinned again.

            The bridge comes in, panicked and breathless.  “Sir, we’re under attack.  An unidentified ship is following us, and they’re released an armor, type unknown.”

            “A single armor?  Then raise ships and return fire.”

            “We’re trying, sir, but it’s fast, faster than anything we can follow. It’s impossible to get a lock.”

            “Of course,” Lancelot growls, his face tight.  It sharpens his features, makes him look more lupine.  He trades glances between the guards and the prisoners, and then he hits the wall hard enough to leave the steel warped.  “I’ll be there soon.”  He looks to the guards again.  “You two, outside.  Lock the door.  I will come back to finish this later.”

            Before he leaves, he stops to look at Chastity, sobbing against the wall, and he growls.  “And you better be ready to talk, then, girl, or I will make it hurt in ways you cannot even comprehend.”

 

-Stargazers part 1-

 

            Guinvere tilts the controls and Mercury follows suit, spiraling about and flying literal circles around Paris.  Magnified shells hurtled past, meant for where she is and hitting only where she was.  Mercury dips and pivots around, moving in close and touching now beside a turret long enough to slice it open with one of its arm-mounted hardened light blades.

 The Mercury armor is a prototype Gigas Armor designed and manufactured by Haze Industries specifically for the Olympic Republic.  It is meant to be mass produced into a line of high-speed Armors, meant for intercepting enemies quickly and particularly engaging enemy spaceships.

            Right now, the armor sports a thin, sleek frame and a brand new, top of the line, prototype rocket called a Hermes Rocket.  At fifty percent capacity, it can move five times the speed of the most powerful Pegasus Rockets, which are standard on all ships and armors.

            Guinevere pulls Mercury up beside Paris and draws a long, smoldering wound across her starboard hall.  Chunks of armor plating disconnect, floating off into spaces.  Parts of the interior hall are exposed in thin strips.

            She pulls forward and directs herself to the front of Paris, following its shifting trajectory.  So long as she stays in range, she can keep them from performing dive.  Piloting a prototype, she has little in the ways of weaponry and cannot single-handedly stop Paris forever, but she can hope to stall them long enough for Daedalus to move into firing range.

            Right now, Guinevere is running the Mercury at fifty-nine percent its maximum speed.  The thrust forces her hard into her seat.  She was chosen specifically from a long list of candidates to test the model, even before she was forced to undergo rigorous G-force training to endure the speeds the Mercury can reach.

            Tilting down, she moves under enemy fire and makes another swipe, slicing a turret off and rendering it ineffectual.

            Paris opens it docking bay in the stern of the ship and launches two Gigas Armors.  They are smaller units, similar to the Olympic Hunter armors in Guinevere opinion.  This makes them ranged units, though she cannot say for certain.  The armors themselves are different from the traditional Hunter model.

            She closes distance between them quickly and, with one smooth push, drives a hardened light blade through one armor’s helm.  The optics shatter in a glittering display of broken lenses and electric sparks.  A small plume of smoke radiates from the fried sensors.

            The other, she kicks from the ship, dislodging it and letting it float away before she lands inside of the docking bay.  Four other armors sit in the bay, one of which is a unique armor entirely different from anything she recognizes.  It is a large, black armor with a thin, metal protrusion, like a lance, built onto its left arm.

            The second Hunter unit returns, now sporting its own hardened light blade.  It drops and swipes, but she sidesteps and turns to puncture its chest piece, and the pilot, in the process.  This time, when she removes the armor from her blade, it floats back silently.

            Her comms buzz.  “Lieutenant, report.”

            “Sir, I’ve boarded the enemy ship, in the armor bay, and am holding position.”

            “Boarded?  How in the world did you manage that,” LeGuin says.  “They’d be crazy to jump with an enemy armor on board.  Be careful but hold position.”

            “Will do, sir.”

 

-Stargazers part 1-

 

            Lancelot enters the bridge and tosses his helmet to his XO.  The entire room sits quietly, waiting in fear for Lancelot to speak.  He stops at an upper platform, where his captain’s chair is, and rests his hands on the guard rail there.  “Status report!”

            The XO jumps forward.  He moves quickly, stopping just short of joining Lancelot on the platform, and he holds the helm firmly under his right arm.  “An unidentified Gigas Armor is attacking us, sir.”

            Lancelot casts him a glare.  “A single armor?”

            The XO swallows thickly.  “Yes, sir.  It’s fast, too fast for our targeting programs.  We sent two armors to deal with it, but...”

            Lancelot sighs heavily and then punches the railing, leaving the shape of his knuckles indented in it.  After another deep breath, he growls.  “But?”

            “The enemy armor has already dealt with them, sir.”

            “What is it using for weapons?  Can you at least tell me that?”

            “Arm-mounted hardened-light blades, sir.  Two of them.”

            Lancelot’s face tightens.  “And that’s all?”

            The XO nods.

            “One armor, and without proper weaponry, and it’s causing you this much trouble?”  He stands tall now and stares down his XO.  “Anything else to tell me?”

            “I-It has taken the hangar, s-sir.  We—We can’t make dive...”

            “Why didn’t you start with that?!”

            “Sir, I’m sorry...”

            Lancelot yanks the helm from his hands and shoves the XO away, into a nearby console.  “Keep the yggdrasil engine primed.  We’ll be diving soon.”

            “But, sir...”

            “But nothing, officer.”  Lancelot bunches his hair quickly and jerks his helm on.  He looks back at the officer, at the entire bridge, and pauses there.  “Keep the hangar doors open.  I will handle this myself.”  He draws his blade, clicking it open and letting it unfold with a series of snaps.  “And when I am done there, we will have a conversation with proper battle protocol.”

            With that, Lancelot leaves the room and hurries toward the hangar.

 

-Stargazers part 1-

 

            Guinevere uses her light blades to sever walkways and dismantle armors.  Debris floats around her in open space.

            The bay door opens and a man wearing an airtight flight suit and helmet enters.  He carries, over his shoulder, a missile launcher.  When he enters the bay, he levels the missile launcher and fires. 

            Guinevere lifts Merucry’s left arm and activates her harden-light shield.  A small panel of light, hexagonal in shape, appears before the armor, projected by a spinning dome-like projector.  The rocket erupts on impact, filling the room with smoke and flame.  Through the haze, she can see the lone figure still there.  He produces a metal shaft, which unfolds into a long, thin blade, and he charges.

            “You’re really going to fight me hand-to-hand while I’m in a Gigas?  You’re insane!”  Disabling the shield, Guinevere flips her light-blades on and lunges forward.  Her enemy sidesteps smoothly, dragging his blade across the Mercury’s arm and leaving a shallow incision just deep enough to severe the wiring inside. The light-blade flickers and fades.

            Mercury was designed for mobility above all else.  Attacks are meant to be evaded, not stopped, which keeps the armor thin.  Trapped in the armor bay like she is, however, the Mercury’s speed doesn’t serve Guinevere at all.  She tries to back up but finds herself at the back of the bay.

            Somehow, this man is faster than her and more agile.  He uses the armor to his advantage, attacking from angles to narrow for her to block, leaving cuts along the armor’s legs and torso.  Once behind her, the man does a flip off of the wall and lands on the armor’s back, stabbing into the cockpit.

            The blade enters just beside her, narrowly missing her head.  It parts the monitor in front of her, leaving it to spark and smoke.  She reaches back for him with the armor’s right arm but finds its functions minimal.  Checking the damage report shows a black screen—nothing.

            The man leaps from again.  She can see him standing in the armor bay, holding tightly to a material pallet that is bolted to the door.  Her sensors wail as the gravity dies and, through a broken screen, she watches his body drift up.  The armor bay opens, expelling her in the process.  She watches, through her broken screens, as the Mercury drifts, tipping and turning and, in stolen, brief glances, the enemy ship, Paris, disappearing into a distortion in space.

            Guinevere screams.  A monitor beside her sets off a warning.  The cockpit is leaking air.  After a few calming breaths, she initiates her comms.  “Daedalus, this is Lt. Guinevere.  The target has escaped.  I repeat, the target has escaped.”

            There is a pause.  Then, the operator says.  “Understood, Lt.  What is your status?”

            “Stranded with cockpit damage and exposure.  Requesting an immediate pick up.”  She reaches for her keyboard and finds it rent.  “Internal damage is severe.  I cannot activate a beacon.  Requesting a search.”

            “Understood, Lt., and granted.  The Captain is curious as to your status, Lt.”

            “Pissed off.”

            Another pause.  “I will pass that along.  See you soon.”

            The comm dies.  Guinevere rests back, breathing slowly to preserve her air.  She keeps her eyes closed and feels the armor, spinning, drifting, in the black.

 

-Stargazers part 1-

 

            Lancelot rests on his back, staring up at the closed armor bay ceiling.  He is more winded than injured, but the landing did leave an ache in his back, and the decompression strained the tender muscles in his left shoulder.  Two soldiers enter the bay, leading a physician with them.

            Lancelot stands and shoves past them.  “Return to your posts.  You’re not needed.”

            He marches from his room and removes his helm on the way.  By the time he reaches the bridge he has his helmet tucked under his arm.  Upon entering, he tosses the helm to his XO, who catches it clumsily, and Lancelot barks, “Report!”

            “A-All turrets have been rendered inert,” his XO says quickly, following Lancelot around the bridge.  He watches Lancelot checking meters on his own and continues stammering, “We’ve lost three armors four armors altogether.  The ships thrusters have suffered minor damage.  Two rockets are operating at seventy-five percent, and the armor plating on both starboard and port sides have suffered medium lacerations, though the hull is mostly intact.”

            Lancelot leans over one of the operators.  The bridge has its visor down, eliminating visual information on the outside world while they are in sub-space dive.  “Are there any docks on the way?”

            The XO looks toward the navigator, who sits up straight.  “We can hit Charon Station, sir,” she says quickly. “It is neutral territory.”

            “One of the few places,” Lancelot says.  He stands straight and rubs his chin.  “It will slow us down, but we need to at least get the turrets functioning again.”  He nods. “Leave dive and divert toward Charon.  Send a report to Troy updating them of our status.  We can rest there at least long enough to let the trail dissipate.  I doubt they’ll give chase, but if they should, it’s better to lead them there than home.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Sir,” the XO says, earning a glare from Lancelot.  The XO flinches.  “W-What of the prisoners?”

            Lancelot grows a thin, vicious smile.  It is almost wolf-like, the way it shows his teeth.  “For now, we let them sit.  We’ll get what we want from them, and if not, then there’s always the airlock.  We’ve got the Guide, and that’s all that really matters.”

The Knights of Sheba, Ep. 9: "Battle" A

Episode Nine: Battle

 

            While Claude works, Shirley packs up his things and loads them into her car.  She crinkles her nose while stuffing his laundry into his bag.  He never really got around to washing things, and what few things he did wash were just at the top of the pile.  This proves to her, more than ever, that Claude needs her.  He may consider himself a hero in the making, but he needs someone around to keep him in clean underwear.

            After work, she and Claude gather his remaining things and finish packing.  Then they return inside to say goodbye to Thomas and thank him for all of his help over the past few months.  They shake hands, and Thomas tells Claude to take care of Shirley and winks at him. Claude smiles bashfully in return.

            Then, they leave.  The storm is already gathering overhead, full, fat dark clouds heavy with snow and eager to release their burden.  They meet traffic on the way.  The sky is darkened and opening.  Snow gathers rapidly on the cold asphalt of the roads.

            “God,” Shirley says, shifting in her seat and trying hard to see where the cars begin.  It is far, far ahead, too far for her to see.  She frowns.  “I always heard that traffic was bad in the big city, but this is ridiculous.  Think there is an accident?”

            Claude stares ahead.  He feels happy to be moving, to live with Shirley, to start something new with her, but there are alarms going off in the back of his head.  His stomach twists and knots.

            “Hope it’s nothing bad, huh,” Shirley says, leaning back into her seat and settling in for a long wait.

            “Yeah,” Claude says, and realization settles.  He can feel it, danger, ahead.  It is his reason, his purpose.  He sighs through his clenched teeth.  “Shirley, really, I’m so, so sorry,” he says, pushing the door open and going to the back of the car.

            “Claude?  Claude!”  Shirley shifts the car into park and follows him out.  She finds him waiting by the trunk with a resolute expression and opens it for him.  He starts digging through his things before she can stop him.  “Claude, what’s going on?  What’re you doing?”

            He pulls his bow from the trunk, along with a quiver of arrows, and he looks her in the eyes.  “The reason why I came here.  It’s out there, waiting for me.”  He looks ahead.  “Or maybe it’s not waiting.”  He returns his attention to her.  “Either way, I have to go.  I have to stop it.”

            Shirley looks ahead now.  She shivers in the cold.  Snowy winds whip her hair around her.  “You think it’s why traffic is all backed up?”

            “Probably,” Claude says.  He fastens his quiver to his right shoulder and checks it to make sure the fit is right.  Then, he slips the bow around his other shoulder.  He shivers, now, too.  “Whatever it is, it’s dangerous.  And it needs to be stopped.”

            “And you’re sure?”

            Claude smirks at her.  “Shirley, you know me.  I’m sure.  I have to go.”

            “But…”

            “It’s my destiny,” he says, and he moves to pass her.  She catches him by the hand, pulls him back into a kiss.  They stand there like this, their warmth breeding between them.  He kisses her back, embraces her.

            They part, and she smiles at him.  “That was for luck.”

            Claude smiles, breathlessly.  “Thanks,” he says.  “I’ll be back.”

            “I know.  Just remember, I’m waiting for you.”

            “You always do.”

            “I love you,” she says, and he pauses and smiles back at her.

            “I,” he pauses to digest the words, the feelings that were always there.  “I love you, too.”  It feels natural on his tongue, and he enjoys it.  He takes her hands and squeezes them.  “Really, I do.”

            “Well, go, then.  Save the world,” she says.

            Claude lingers, taking in the sight of her.  He will always remember this moment, her standing in the snow, nose slightly red, eyes and smile shining with pride, cutting through the darkness and doubt.  The cars behind her make halos of light that frame her and make her shine.

            “I will,” he says, and he gives one last squeeze of her hands before turning and running toward the unknown danger.

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

            “I am sorry to have interrupted your night,” Ms. Olivia says, glancing at Geneva’s dress.  Geneva tugs on the hem anxiously but stays quiet.  They are swerving through the streets, breaking laws when necessary. “I assume I did interrupt something.”

            “Something,” Geneva says, “But, to be honest, I’m kind of relieved.”

            “Oh?”

            “Well, I mean, I’m not relieved to be fighting deadly monsters or anything.  But I’m beginning to think that big parties aren’t my thing.”

            “Then why attend?”

            Geneva shrugs.  “It’s what girlfriends do. I think.”

            “The lives of human adolescents seem so complicated.”

            “You have no idea,” Geneva says.  “Do you have anything else I can wear?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “I mean, dresses—good for wooing your pretty lady-partner.  Not so good for winning a battle to the death.”  She smooths the dress against her thighs.  “Seriously, I won’t be too mobile in this.”

            “True, I hadn’t thought of that.  If I had known, I would have brought something for you.”

            “Great,” Geneva says.  She stares out the window.  The sky is black, and so is everything else.  She can see police lights up ahead or something flashing like them.  “And there’s a real demon here?”

            “Unfortunately, it seems so, and not just any demon.  From evidence gathered on the scene, they have informed me that it may be a lone target, but one that is very large and very deadly.”

            “Right, it can never be easy.”  Geneva undoes her seatbelt and begins to clumsily tug her dress off.  Once out of it, she tosses it into the back seat and settles again in her underwear.  Her cheeks are burning red when Ms. Olivia looks at her.  She covers herself as best as she can with her arms.  “Don’t stare!  I know it’s weird, but what else am I supposed to do?”  She conjures her armor out of modesty.

            “There is no need for embarrassment, Ms. Oaks.  In truth, your dedication is quite impressive.”

            “Yeah, well, I did already bail on my girlfriend to fight a demon.  So, there’s that, too.”

            “I apologize.”

            Geneva sighs.  “Let’s just get this done and get me back so I can do damage control.”

            “Ms. Oaks, I must warn you to take this seriously and be careful.”

            “Right, because I was planning on going in and getting killed, but you’ve got me reconsidering it.  I mean, the more I think about it, being dead might be relieving in the short, but I don’t think it’ll be as rewarding in the long term.”

            “Your jokes aside, we have fear that it might be a demon lord.”

            “A demon what-now?”

            “Myths say that there was a demon king, whose blood was distilled from the essence of their very gods.  Seventy-two bloodlines descended from him, each founding houses and declaring themselves lords upon his death.  Those carrying this blood are said to be endowed with strange, mystical gifts.”  Ms. Olivia pauses to let the information sink in, and then says, “The texts are sparse, but…”

            “So, you’re saying he’s, like, what?  The final boss or something?”

            “I suppose?  Honestly, I don’t fully understand what you mean.”

            “He’s strong.”

            “Very, very strong, I’d say.”

            “Great.” Geneva sighs again.  “Anymore good news?”

            They come to a halt a few feet away from the rows of cars trapped on the bridge, and Ms. Olivia’s lips grow thin.  “Only that we can’t go any further by car.”

            “That’s fine,” Geneva says, conjuring her armor.  She opens the car door.

            “Ms. Oaks, where are you going?”

            “To kill the monster.  That is my job now, remember?”

            “But, how will you find it?”

            “Shouldn’t be too hard, right?  Just have to look for the giant green guy wrecking the city.”

            Ms. Olivia considers it for a moment and then nods, reluctantly.  “Fine, you go on ahead.  Your armor will protect you from the cold and grant you greater speed than you would normally have.”

            “I know,” Geneva says, stepping out of the car.  The snow is already deep enough to leave footprints and only growing deeper as more falls.

            “Mind your wand.”

            Geneva looks back.  “You mean sword.  Or swand?  Did we ever settle on one?  Anyway, stab it.  Got you.”

            “Yes,” Ms. Olivia says and, before Geneva can close the door, “Geneva!”

            Holding the door, Geneva peeks back inside.  “Yes?”

            “Be careful.”

            Geneva laughs nervously.  “Kind of a silly think to say when you’re sending someone into battle, don’t you think?”  She closes the door and runs off, weaving between cars on the way.

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

            A car goes flying in a low arc, hitting the ground hard and bending under its own weight.  It slides to a stop and falls onto its hood.  Glass spills out around it like glittering drops of blood, and Andromalius stomps passed, growling at his surroundings.

            The world is blinding with light and noise.  Even here, with the elven partitions, the abandoned streets seem full of life.  The sky shines in refraction.  Travel between worlds had been disorienting, but it is nothing compared to the burning skyline of the human realm.

            He stops in the empty streets and stares at the sky, watching the snow fall.  There are no soldiers here and no leaders, simply tiny men and women running for their lives.  They are soft things, not worthy of his attention.  There is nothing.

            “Now, that’s just not nice,” he hears, and he turns to find Geneva behind him.  She stands near the end of the street, clad in white armor with beige weave, her hips cocked to one side.  She is nearly four feet shorter than him and much lighter.

            He snorts. “I came hearing stories of the return of the knights, the demon slayers of lore.  And all I find is a world sick with light and noise, and a tiny human infant playing at hero.”

            Geneva stares at him for a long moment, her right hand on her hip.  After some consideration, she says, “Infant?  That’s not nice, either.  Or even remotely accurate.  I mean, I have a little baby fat.”  She pinches her stomach through the weave.  “Still, guess I can’t imagine manners from someone who comes storming into the city, stomping around, breaking stuff, going all ‘take me to your leader.’”

            “I did not come for a leader.  I came to issue warning.  Our world is open, and I won’t have your kind invading.  My lands will be protected.”

            “So, you propose to stop war by starting a war.”

            “This is no war.  It is a warning.  I will break you, make you an example, and then the worlds will know.  And they will fear Andromalius, the knight slayer!”

            “Sorry to tell you, but I don’t think breaking me will be nearly as impressive as you think.”

            “Do all humans talk so much?”

            “Nah.  I’m special.”

            Andromalius roars and charges like a bull, head down, shoulders forward.  Geneva tumbles out of the way and rolls to a stop beside a car.  He slides to a halt in the snow and turns on her, bringing his meaty first down toward her head.  She side-steps, avoiding the attack and leaving him to drive his fist clean through the windshield of the car.

            Geneva sprints away, putting fifteen feet between them before coming to a stop.  She turns to him, hands on her hips, and says, “Listen, all joking aside.  We really don’t have to fight.  If you give up now, I promise I’ll get you amnesty or whatever it’s called.  You’ve just got to pinky swear.”

            Andromalius yanks his arm free in an explosion of glass and seems no worse for it.  He glares.  “You think I should be afraid of you, when all you have done is retreat?”

            “No, not afraid.  Not exactly.  Just, I don’t know, reasonable?  I mean, is that really so much to ask?”

            Animals, when angry or ready to fight, swell.  Andromalius does, too.  His muscles tighten in a display of supremacy.  Already, he towered over her, but now he does it with purpose.  “As a child I heard stories of human soldiers wearing magical armor, who, single-handedly, turned the tide of the war, who met our soldiers on the field and cut terror into their flesh. I come here seeking the myth, and instead I get you.”

            “So, I am taking that as a no?”

            “You are all talk,” Andromalius says.  “A disappointment.  A lie.  But you will not be worth nothing.  I’ve told you—you will be an example.”

            Geneva sighs.  “Right, right, give me a second then.”  She reaches back and unstheaths her wand with one smooth motion.  As it forms, she levels it at him, and she gathers all of her courage.  Even at a distance, she feels like she is staring up into his eyes.  “Last time.  Stop now.”

            “I will not be intimidated by a child.”

            “Is the child thing really necessary?”

            Andromalius yanks the door off of the nearby car and tests its weight.  Then, he hurls it at her overhand.  She sidesteps it and watches it bounce along the street before crashing through the storefront window of a nearby shop.

            By the time she turns, Andromalius is there.  He barrels through her, hitting with his shoulder and knocking her to the ground.  When she lands, her wand slides across the street, coming to a stop underneath a parked car.  She rolls onto her stomach and plans to go for it when Andromalius takes her by the leg and tosses her in the opposite direction.

            A brick wall stops her, cracking underneath the force of her landing.  She slides to the ground, dazed and breathless.  He leaps, landing just in front of her, and brings his fist down as he does.  She rolls away at the last minute, coming to a stop face down in the snow, and while she doesn’t see the blow land, the sound of cracking stone gives her a solid indication of the result.

            Before he can close in, she shuffles to her feet and stumbles away.  She hears him stomping after her and knows that escape is impossible.  So, she turns on him and sinks into her best boxing pose. She tries to draw on her training, which focused primarily on blade work.  Suddenly, she feels entirely unprepared.

            “You sure we can’t talk this out?”

            “We have talked enough,” he screams, stepping into range.  For his size, he moves very quickly.  His fist is a blur, moving too fast for her to follow, and strikes her in the chest before she can even blink.  The second punch leaves her staggered, but the armor protects her.

            She throws her right arm up to catch a third swing, but it lands with devastating force.  It knocks her sideways, into a nearby building, where she braces against the wall for balance.  Her head spins, and another hammer-like strike sends her to her knees.

            He stands over her, sneering in disappointment, his fists bleeding.  Geneva is on her hands and knees, panting and trying hard not to cry.  Her entire body aches, and the last blow left her helmet cracked.

            “It seems you’re no longer so intent on talking,” Andromalius says.

            “Funny, seems like you are.”  Geneva jumps up and kicks him, hard, in the shin before running away.  Androamlius stumbles back and screams before giving chase.

            She sprints as hard as she can through the snow, dropping down a few feet away and sliding the remaining distance to the car.  She has to grab a wheel to stop herself as she slides under.  Her fingers brush against her wand just as he grabs her by the shoulder and lifts her up.  He crushes her between his two enormous hands, and she flails and struggles for breath.

            “So, this is a knight.  A petty thing, using petty tactics.  Weren’t you taught how to fight?”

            “Apparently,” she coughs, “not.”

            “Disappointing,” he says.  “I was expecting a challenge, but still, glory is glory.”

            With all of his weight and strength, he slams her down onto the car beneath her.  The hood bends and twists, the frame groans under the impact.  The last thing Geneva remembers before passing out is the windshield rupturing, raining down on her, the shards catching the light of the lamps and casting little circular rainbows across her body.

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

            Nina was never one to wait and can’t wait this time, either.  So, not long after Geneva leaves, she follows.  Gun in hand, she runs through the streets, ignoring the bite of the cold or the chill of the snow melting upon her exposed flesh.  She imagines Geneva caught in battle against an unstoppable enemy and knows who it was who put her there.

            The storm reaches apex.  The snow is heavy and streets clogged with exhaust and cars as she approaches the roadblock.  There, she finds elven soldiers dressed in police uniforms.  Upon arrival, she hears a few elves warding people off with imaginary threats.  They are working for now, but Nina can feel the growing agitation in the cold air.

            She slips past the roadblock and pushes ahead toward the danger when she gets a call from Erak.  “Sir?”

            “I hear your girl is out there.  Congratulations.  Looks like she’s finally grown up.”

            “Yes, sir.  Thank you.”

            “Where are you right now, Lieutenant?”

            “On my way to offer support, sir.”

            “Don’t.”

            Nina stops, her gun clutched tightly in her cold hand.  “Excuse me, sir, but could you repeat that?”

            “Don’t support her.”

            “But, sir…”

            “You’ve been training her, haven’t you?”

            “Yes, but…”

            “Then she shouldn’t need your help, should she?”

            Nina pauses, stares ahead.  She can see downtown through a haze of snow and shadows.  “But, sir, this is no ordinary demon.”

            “And she’s no ordinary girl.  Or so you say.  Listen, this is her job.  Her only job.  It’s the entire reason we’ve allowed you to play this little game of yours.”

            “But if it is a demon noble…”

            “All the more reason to hold you in reserve.  The knights were founded specifically to deal with the corrupt bastards of the demons’ so-called high lineage.  Anyhow, you’re of better use to me at the blockade.  I hear the humans are getting restless.”

            Nina looks back.  She can see rows of lights gathered, each blinding in intensity.  She can hear honks from the cars in the back and see shadows moving.  “Yes, sir.  I can imagine, but what if she fails?”

            “If she fails, we step in.  Until then, you’ll just have to believe in her.”  He pauses.  “You do believe in her, don’t you?”

            Nina hesitates.  She imagines the sixteen-year-old girl flailing with a wooden sword and takes a deep breath.  Then, she remembers the sixteen-year-old girl who led a demon away from someone else to keep them safe.  “Yes, sir.  Of course, I do.”

            “Then follow orders and get back to the blockade.  You know how to talk to humans.”

            “Yes, sir.”  Nina hangs up and stares back at the city and truly believes in Geneva.  She just hopes belief is enough.

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

            Geneva slides from the hood like an afterthought, landing face first in the snow and remaining there.  She feels battered, perhaps even broken, but Ms. Olivia is in her head, talking to her, ordering her to wake up and, more importantly, to move.

            Andromalius stands over her, hands fixed on the front end of the car.  It groans as he lifts it into the air, and Geneva watches through the helm’s lenses as his blurry form strains to keep it aloft, preparing to drop it on her.  In her periphery, she sees the wand gleam under the glow of a nearby streetlights.

            Again, Ms. Olivia is there, ordering her to reach out, to grab it.  The car obscures the light now and casts a long shadow.  Geneva holds her breath and waits for the end to come.  Instead, she hears a harmless clatter.

            She opens her eyes and finds an arrow in the snow.  Andromalius looks off to the side at someone holding a bow.  “Elves,” Geneva whispers to herself, and then she remembers that the elves use guns.

            Another arrow sails in.  It hits Andromalius across the chest and bounces off. Grunting, the demon tosses the car aside and turns away from Geneva, a sneer written across his large, angular features.

            “Who?” Geneva moves her head slowly, shuffling in the snow to catch sight of her mysterious ally.  It is no elf, but Claude, standing there, bow ready, his jacket fluttering in the hard, cold wind.  He has another arrow nocked and ready to fire, and from what Geneva can see, he is whispering to it.

            Andromalius barks or laughs, Geneva can’t really tell.  She turns away and crawls toward her wand, hoping to reach it before her enemy notices.  That is when she hears an explosion.  It is just behind her and leaves her ears ringing.  She can feel Andromalius’ big frame moving staggering in its wake.

            Taking this as her cue, Geneva snatches her wand.  She pulls it in close and curls into a little ball.  Immediately behind her, Andromalius settles in the snow and glares at Claude, who has another arrow ready.  Another explosion and this time Geneva sees its origin.  Each arrow fired explodes with a blinding, roaring flame.

            As terrifying as the display is, each time the smoke clears there is little damage done.  The surface of Andormalius’ skin is slightly charred but more than anything it only seems to leave him angry.  He snarls and charges at Claude, who keeps drawing arrows, keeps whispering, and keeps firing.

            Geneva groans.  “Maybe those arrows won’t work, but I’m sure this can.”  Geneva stands. Her legs quiver under her weight.  She calls to Andromalius, who stops and turns to regard her dismissively, and she levels her wand at him.  “Hey, guess what, ugly.  It’s two on one now.”

            Andromalius snorts and looks between him.  Again, he barks, and his massive body shaking.  “Yes. Two.  Even more for me to kill.”  He sobers and glares at her.  “An entire army wouldn’t save you, child.”

            “Man, you’re really starting to piss me off.”  Geneva takes a deep breath, tests her footing, and then charges.  She means to attack in some way but doesn’t have a plan ready by the time they meet.  So, he slams his open palm into her gut with enough force to throw her into a distant stoop and leaves her tumbling down onto the sidewalk.

            Claude fires and Andromalius swats the arrow out of the sky.  It explodes against his hand and, as the smoke clears, Andromalius marches through it.  He glares at Claude and, in his coarse, demon language, shouts, “I must admit, I am curious, human.  How is it that you make your arrows burn?  Are you, too, blessed by your gods or is this some other power I do not know?”

            Claude retreats while readying another arrow.

            “Can you not hear me, or has your fear rendered you mute?”

            Claude lifts his bow and aims, and Andromalius roars and closes distance.  Rather than taking the head shot, Claude lowers the bow and fires into the demon’s gut.  The arrow explodes with enough force to stagger Claude and with enough light to blind him.  Andromalius, meanwhile, swings wide and catches Claude across the side.  It snaps Claude’s bow and arm simultaneously

            Afterward, Andromalius takes Claude by the chest and holds him against the alley wall.  He lifts Claude head, holding it again the cold bricks.  Claude pants and bleeds. His vision blurs, but he makes an effort to stare Androamlius in the eyes.

            “Once, humanity fought us in a great war, but this is no war, is it?  No, it is simply execution.  Thousands of years, a lifetime of stories, and this is what I find?  Disappointment doesn’t begin to explain my feelings.”

            “Hey,” Geneva shouts, stumbling to her feet.  She uses a nearby lamppost to keep steady as she leans down to grab her wand.  It feels heavier than she remembers.  “I think he may be a bit distracted, what with the busted arm, but if you want, I can keep you entertained for a bit.  Want to have a chat?  Maybe we can talk about the weather? Or politics?  Maybe you can tell me what it’s like to be a big, green outsider in a tiny human world.”

            Andromalius frowns and drops Claude like a broken toy.  “It is annoying,” he says, turning.  “I keep swatting you down, and you keep getting back up.”

            “Yeah.”  Geneva staggers forward on legs that feel like jelly.  “My sister says I’m like herpes; itchy, red, and you just can’t get rid of me.”

            Andromalius looks down at Claude, who nurses his damaged arm.  “Wait here, little man, I will return for you shortly.”

            “Ah, no, you won’t,” Geneva says, lifting her wand and trying hard not to shake.  She fails.  “Because, I plan to end this once and for all.”  She hopes that sounds more impressive to him than it did to her.

            Time stands still as they eye each other.  Snow drifts between them, carried by uncaring, unfeeling winds.  Geneva feels unsteady but still considers herself in the battle.  At the very least, she seems better off than her archer friend.  Simply looking at his arm makes her skin crawl.

            Then, they move.  As if on cue, they charge each other.  Andromalius stomps forward, using his momentum and weight to his advantage.  Once close, Geneva plants her feet with both hand and braces the hilt of her wand against her leg, and then winces.

            First, she feels pain.  They collide with enough force that the wand’s hilt cracks her armor.  The blade digs into Andormalius’ side, leaving him momentarily shocked as he regards the wound with short-lived respect.

            Then, he scoops her up and tosses her in a fit of rage.  She lands beside Claude, collapsing a few trashcans on impact, while Andromalius roars and pulls the wand from his flesh.  He examines the blade, his blood on it, before feeling his side.  Blood flows through his fingers.  He stares at them next before dropping the wand in the snow.

            “And here I thought all humans were weak.”  He looks up to find Geneva, face-up on a wrinkled trashcan.  “And already you disappoint me again.”

            “No, no disappointment,” Geneva says, pushing herself up, onto her feet.  “Just new to this.  Give me a second.”  She uses the wall to keep herself steady as she moves to Claude’s side and kneels.  “Hey, uh, guy.  You okay?”

            “I’m,” he struggles to focus on her, stares into her helm but not into her eyes.  His arm is bleeding, and Geneva can see bone protruding.  “I’m sorry, I can’t fight.”

            “Figured as much,” she says, regarding his splintered bow.  “Can you still do the arrow thing?”

            “What?”

            “You know, how you make the arrows go ‘boom.’”

            “I can, but…”

            “Great, and about how long till they go off?”

            “A few seconds…”

            Geneva pulls an arrow from the snow where his quiver had emptied and hands it to him.  “Then gambit this thing up for me.”

            Claude regards the arrow curiously for a moment before taking it into his good hand.  “How will we fire it at him?”

            “Trust me, I’ve got plans.”  She watches him hesitate and then whisper into the arrow.  Then, he returns it with a warning to hurry. Geneva nods and turns, and she takes off in a sprint, pushing herself harder now than she ever has before and helped a great deal by her armor.

            “Again?  This game grows tedious!” When they meet, it is a dance.  Andromalius swings high, just above her head, and Geneva lunges, ineffectually, at his side.  They stumble together, and she finds another opening and tries hard to drive the arrow into his wound, but he catches her. Lifting her by the shoulder, he smiles.

            “Clever,” he says, eying the arrow as he holds her.  “But ultimately futile.  I am meant for war, human.  My skin is far too hard for something like steel to harm me.”

            “Figured,” Geneva says, and she drives the arrow into his eye just before it explodes.

The force of the explosion throws Geneva into a nearby streetlamp, bowing it around her before she falls forward into the sidewalk

            As the smoke clears, it reveals Andromalius’ enormous body, crowned by a ruptured skull.  He sways, briefly, and then falls.  Fragments of him lie scattered, red in the snow.

            Cradling his arm, Claude stumbles over to Geneva, who rests hunched, snow gathering on her armor.  He settles beside her, wet with snow and blood, half afraid to touch her.  After a few seconds, she jerks up and looks around.  The right lens of her helm is fractured into a tiny web-work of cracks.  “Huh, what, huh,” she looks at Andromalius body, and then at the splatter of blood across her body.  “Okay, ew.”

            “You’re okay.”  Claude sighs and settles.

            “Yeah, and so are you.”  Geneva reaches up and feels along her helm. Its pieces rearrange, sliding open, allowing her to pull it off. The cold air feels good on her face, bracing, but the smell makes her recoil.  She clutches her nose. “Okay, mistake.”

            Claude laughs weakly and looks her over.  “Who are you?”

            “Geneva,” she says, extended her armored, soot blackened hand.  She looks down at Claude’s hand, which rests limply on his thigh.  “Ah.  Sorry.”

            “Don’t be,” he says.  “I think you saved my life.”

            “Don’t worry about it,” she says.  She stares at Andromalius’ body and sighs.  “Now, the hard part.”

            Claude looks at it, too.  He can see the blood gathering in the snow, see the fresh snow gathering in the blood.  “What’s the hard part?”

            “How do we tell them that we won?”

           

The Knights of Sheba 109 A…End