— Chase? Chase! FUCK, WAKE UP CHASE! — Gora shook Chase hard. He didn’t budge, only slumped off the horn.
— What is happening? Is he okay? — Lalene leaned forward from the back seat.
— Stay back, ma’am. — Gora extended a hand towards her. And gave up on shaking Chase. She popped open the panel at the back of his neck and flipped the manual override, nothing. — Shit. He’s completely off… — she tried turning the car on again, but the car didn’t respond. — … This is bad, bad, bad…
— Talk to us, dammit! What the hell is happening? — the man behind her seat pushed and shook it up.
— … Fine! We are cooked, is what happened. An EMP must have disabled all electronics in the whole state area. — Gora bursted out and unlatched her seatbelt.
— An EMP? What-
— Doesn’t matter. We need to leave the city, now! Because-
Suddenly a damp and dry crack roared from all directions, deafening fading and echoing in between the buildings like a roaring thunder as nearly every window shattered and cracked, as a faint orange light glowed from beyond the clouds. Both the man and Lalene covered the children as the windows cracked and the car got rained on by glass.
— Everyone okay? — Gora checked on them. — I’m glad I never got any implants.
— My left eye’s gone! I can’t see! — the man groaned, clutching his face.
— We can get you a doctor and find a new eye at the camp. I need someone to help me ditch Chase. We can’t afford to wait for him to reboot, that is, if he’s still with us. — Gora left the car and opened the back door. — Grab what you need, we move now.
Gora hurried Lalene and the man off the van, looking around over the front and behind the vehicle. She grunted and pressed her helmet controls trying to restart it, finally giving up and throwing it away. She wiped her face with a sleeve, forcing herself to focus. With a grunt, she pulled down her combat skin, letting her ears and feathers puff free in the cold air.
— Can you shoot? — she walked to the man holding the little girl.
— Uh, I’m a linguistics major. — excused the man covering his malfunctioning synth eye.
— I did hunting lessons with my ex-husband. — Lalene stepped forward.
— Good enough. Standard issue rifle. — Gora pushed the rifle to her. — stay behind me.
— … Lift, pull, hold, slide, switch. — Lalene scanned the weapon with her hands and muttered as she readied it.
[SOUND OF DISTANT GUNFIRE, FAINT SIRENS. WIND HOWLS THROUGH BROKEN STREET]
The city was a different kind of quiet now. A dead quiet, broken by things that didn’t sound like sirens or people. The kind of quiet that felt heavy, like a blanket smothering the world. The only light came from above, that ugly orange glow behind the clouds, and from the distant fires reflecting off the bottom of the smoke layer. Street signs were dark. Building lights were out. The world had been unplugged.
Gora led, her head on a swivel, ears twitching at every distant crack and thud. She wasn't looking for street names anymore. She was looking for shapes, for movement, for the silhouette of a landmark tower against the hell-glow.
— We need to find a metro entrance. Get underground. — Gora’s voice was low, cutting through the silence she herself had imposed. — It’s a straight shot. Less eyes on us.
[SOUND OF FOOTSTEPS ON GLASS AND DEBRIS. KALENE WHIMPERS SOFTLY]
— Shhh, baby, it’s okay. — Lalene’s whisper was strained, her grip tight on the rifle, her other hand pulling Kalene closer. Favo followed, his piece of scrap metal held like a talisman.
A few blocks over, the silence broke. Not with random noise, but with the organized, terrifying sound of a real fight. The staccato pop of rifles, the heavier thump of something else. And a sound they hadn’t heard before, a high-pitched, shrieking whine of energy weapons. Gora held up a fist. They froze in the shadow of a collapsed bus shelter.
— Wait here. — she hissed, and darted to the corner of a building, peeking around.
[SOUND OF INTENSE FIREFIGHT GROWS LOUDER]
Lalene risked a look. Down the wide avenue, an army squad was pinned behind the smoldering wreck of a… thing. A hemispherical craft, maybe ten patas across, lay crumpled against a fountain. It was scarred and smoking, but a hatch was open, and from it, the invaders poured out.
They were a nightmare of standardized design. All clad in the same sleek, dark armor and battleskin, marked with unfamiliar, sharp-angled symbols that glowed faintly in the gloom. But the bodies underneath were all wrong.
Most of them, maybe half, were bipedal, humanoid. Their movements under the armor were jarringly familiar, but their precision was alien, coordinated. They moved like parts of a single machine.
Among them, things that stood on two thick legs but ran on four limbs, their armored backs bristling with tentacles that uncurled to fire weapons or drag wounded comrades back with brutal efficiency. A heavier one, a brute nearly bursting out of its standardized plating, hefted a cannon that thumped with a deeper, more resonant shriek. Its bolt hit an army barricade, and a section of it didn’t just shatter. It boiled away in a cloud of vapor and molten stone, the shrapnel sizzling through the air.
The air itself was being torn apart by their weapons. Every shot was a rising, piercing SCREECH, like a steam-kettle pushed to its breaking point. That ended in a wet, fizzling CRACK as it vaporized flesh, metal, and concrete. The smell was ozone, cooked meat, and hot stone.
— They’re… people? — Lalene whispered, horrified, her eyes fixed on the humanoid forms.
— Don’t know. Don’t care. They’re shooting. — Gora muttered, pulling back. — We go around. Now.
But before they could move, a new sound emerged. A chittering, skittering wave of noise from the side streets. A flood of the smaller, multi-legged fauna poured into the intersection. They didn’t care about sides. They swarmed over the army position. They clambered over the downed saucer. The neat lines of the firefight dissolved into a melee of screams, alien shrieks, and the wet sounds of close-quarters death.
One of the armored humanoids turned its weapon on the swarm, the screech of its bolt drowning out the fauna's clicks. It burned through three of the creatures before a larger beast, a hulking thing with exposed, glistening muscle fused to rust-colored metal plates, barreled into it, crushing the invader against the saucer's hull.
— They’re fighting each other? — Favo breathed, his eyes wide.
— They don’t care, — Gora said, her voice grim with understanding. She’d seen it. In the chaos, she saw one of the invaders. Its helmet was cracked, and the face underneath, the face was hoku.
Their eyes focused on the heat of the firefight a moment earlier, suddenly turning to her. Their rectangular pupils sharpened, as if having a split second of conscience before turning back to its energy rifle, reloading it quickly.
— They just don’t care. Move! Back this way!
She shoved them back, toward a set of stairs leading down into darkness, a metro entrance. As they stumbled down the first few steps, Gora’s eyes locked on a body sprawled near the curb. An army regular. A grenade belt, still full, was strapped to their chest.
— Shit. — she spat. — Get down there! Don’t stop!
— Where are you going?! — Lalene cried.
But Gora was already moving, low and fast, back out into the open. She sprinted, a crouched shadow, toward the corpse as the chaos of the three-way battle raged fifty patas away. She grabbed the belt, yanking it free. A clawed limb smashed down where her hand had been a second before. She didn’t look back. She just ran, hurling herself down the metro stairs as a red energy bolt seared the wall above her head.
She landed hard at the bottom, breathing in ragged gasps. The grenade belt clattered on the tile floor beside her.
In the dim light filtering from the street, five pairs of eyes stared back at her.
— Let’s go, — Gora panted, scooping up the belt. — And don’t touch the rails.
Mohopu came in with a ringing in his ears that wasn’t a sound, but a feeling. A high-pitched vibration deep inside his skull. He was on the ground. The bike was a tangled mess of wheels and frame a few patas away, half-crushed under a collapsed streetlamp. The world was tilted.
He tried to push himself up, and a white-hot wire of pain lanced from the side of his head down his spine. His left ear felt… wrong. Numb and heavy at the same time. He reached up, his fingers coming away slick and dark in the gloom. His ear wasn't just cut. A long, jagged shard of window glass was embedded deep in the cartilage at the top, the flesh around it torn and hanging loose. It wasn't bleeding much, just a slow, sticky seep. It was a cold, clean injury. Precise.
He stared at it for a full ten seconds, his mind refusing to process the reality of the thing dangling from his own head. He pulled, gently. The glass shifted, sending another jolt of nauseating pain. It was in deep, hooked. It wasn't coming out clean.
A low, guttural sound escaped his throat. Not a scream. Something older. He looked around. The street was a canyon of broken glass and silence. No one was coming. No one was here.
His upper eyes scanned the debris, his lower set fixed on the grotesque task. His hands, surprisingly steady, found a smaller, sharper piece of rubble. He brought his good ear down towards his shoulder, stretching the damaged one taut.
He didn't think. He acted.
He opened his mouth and bit down. His small front teeth couldn't cut it, not through the tough cartilage. He had to gnaw. It was a wet, gristly, shuddering sensation that traveled straight into his jaw. He tasted copper and something alien, the flavor of his own violated body. He worked his jaw back and forth, a rodent caught in a trap, until with a final, sickening crunch, the connection gave way.
He spat the bloody tip of his own ear onto the pavement, the piece of glass clattering away with it. He didn't look at it. He just breathed, ragged and sharp, through his nose. Working quickly, his breath puffing in white clouds, he ripped a long strip from the sleeve of his coat. He wrapped it around his head, once, twice, pulling it tight over the mangled stump, tying it off with a clumsy knot. The pressure was a dull, throbbing anchor of pain. It was better than the dangling.
He got to his feet, his legs wobbling. He saw it then, over the jagged skyline. A faint, pulsing orange light, like a dying ember held behind a sheet of cloth. It was in the direction of the coast. He didn't know what it was, and he didn't care. It was just another landmark in hell.
He righted the bicycle. The front wheel was bent, the frame scratched, but it moved. He started pedaling. The rhythm was a mantra, a focus against the pain.
Push down. Pull up. Push down. Pull up.
He didn't know how long he rode. Time had dissolved. His world was the next patch of clear road, the next shadow to avoid. Then, his damaged ear, even through the bandage, caught a faint, high-frequency hum.
He braked hard, the bent wheel scraping against the frame.
There, parked at a careless angle, was a military van. And slumped against the driver's side door, face pressed against the window panel, was the sleek, armored form of a specter. Its glowing eyes were dark. Its antennae were still.
Mohopu let the bike clatter to the ground. He took a hesitant step forward, then another.
— Hello? — his voice was a raw croak.
No response. He reached out a trembling, blood-crusted hand.
— …Off-...Officer? Hey… — he shook the figure while muttering harshly, his voice raw.
The specter’s head lolled, its faceplate clicking softly against the window. No light in its eyes. Mohopu tried the car door. It was unlocked. He pulled it open, the interior light stubbornly dark. He flicked the switch up and down. Nothing.
— Shit… it’s dead, — he muttered, the reality of the silence finally settling past his own pain. It wasn’t just this car. It was everything.
Exhaustion hit him like a physical weight. He climbed into the passenger seat, the stale, chemical-smelling air of the van feeling almost safe. His head throbbed in time with his butchered ear. Outside, the distant gunfire and unearthly roars were a lullaby of the damned. His four eyes grew heavy, lids sliding shut…
He jerked awake with a gasp, his body seizing as if he’d been falling. Disoriented, he slapped his own face once, the sting sharp and clean. Then again, harder. Stay awake. Stay alive. He thought out loud.
He turned to the dead specter. A pistol was secured in a hard-shell holster on its chest. A weapon. Hope. He grabbed the grip and pulled. It didn’t budge. A thick, coiled tether, like a phone cord made of steel, connected it to the armor vest.
— Tch… — he grunted, sighing in raw frustration.
He patted the specter’s chest, searching pouches. Medic. Maybe there was a bandage, something for the fire in his ear. His finger snagged on something sharp in a small compartment. He winced, pulling back and sucking on the new, shallow cut. He reached in more carefully, his fingers closing around a small, hard bundle. A field medical kit.
He sifted through it in the dim light. Bandages, syringes he didn’t understand, and small foil blisters of pills. He stuffed his pockets with the blisters. He didn’t know what they were. It didn’t matter. He ripped one open, spilling tiny white tablets into his palm. He shoved one into his mouth and chewed. A bitter, chalky powder coated his tongue, making him cough, but he forced it down with a thick swallow.
His eyes fell on a sterile scalpel in the kit. He sawed at the pistol’s tether. The blade scraped uselessly against the tough, woven outer layer. He threw it down with a curse, then grabbed a pair of medical pliers. He pinched and twisted, pinched and twisted, until with a final, metallic ping, the tether snapped.
The pistol was free. His hands, clumsy with adrenaline and exhaustion, fumbled with it. He found a button, pressed it, and the magazine clattered to the dark footwell.
— Damn it! — he hissed, scrambling on the floor until his fingers closed around the cold metal box. He slammed it back into the grip, hearing a solid click.
He pointed the weapon at the floor, finger finding the trigger. His tired eyes looked down the glowing sights — they didn't need no power but nature’s own mineral spices, faintly luminescent in the absolute dark. A small, stupid miracle.
He took a deep breath, and took a second look at the specter. He initially looked for a radio on its belt, a handset, anything. But it then occurred to him. Why would it have one? It was the radio. A damn robot, he thought, his eyes tracing the static head antennas that mimicked his own ears. One of his was now just a throbbing lump of bandage.
— Come on! I need you, goddammit! — he growled, his voice cracking. He grabbed the specter's armored shoulder and shook it, the body lolling bonelessly. — Where's the rest of your unit?!
He shook it harder, a surge of futile anger overwhelming the pain. The dead weight shifted, slid, and with a heavy, metallic THUD, the specter pitched through the open driver's door and onto the pavement.
— Agh! — Mohopu growled in frustration, slamming a fist on the seat. He snatched the pistol and got out of the car, weapon held forward in his trembling hands. His stance was an amateur's, struggling to control the heavy metal, his arms shaking from exhaustion and strain. He scanned the dark street, the broken windows like dead eyes watching him.
Then, a flicker. A lightpost down the block stuttered, glowed a weak orange, and gradually lit back to life with a low hum. For a single, heart-lifting second, he thought— Then it sparked, popped, and exploded in a shower of glass and dying sparks, plunging the street back into a deeper darkness.
The brief hope felt like a physical blow. He was initially startled, but then his mind, sharpened by adrenaline, snapped back to the car and the specter on the ground.
— Power. It needs power. — he whispered.
He ran back, holstering the pistol in his belt. He yanked the release and threw open the hood of the van. The engine block was a dark, cold hulk. He found the battery, a heavy, blocky thing. He grunted, ignoring the fresh flare of pain from his cut finger as he wrestled with the terminals, his hands slipping on the grease and his own blood. He finally wrenched it free, heaving the heavy block out and dropping it onto the street with a grunt.
He knelt beside the specter, his breath misting in the air. He worked fast, fingers fumbling with the clasps and buckles of the armored vest. He had to get to its core. He stripped the vest away, exposing the sleek, sealed chassis of its torso. Somewhere, there had to be a port, a way in. He was no engineer, but he was a man with a car battery and absolutely nothing left to lose.
His fingers and nails struggled to find a clear port, an entrance, an affordance to open the specter’s back, a latch, a button, anything… So he felt across its sides, two hinges, immovable.
— ...You better be alive on the inside, — Mohopu snarled, the words tasting like copper and bitterness. — I was gonna need these.
He scuttled back a few steps, raised the heavy pistol, and placed the barrel a finger's width from the first hinge. He turned his face away, covering his eyes and face with his free arm, and pulled the trigger.
The dry CRACK was immense, echoing off the building facades like a thunderclap. The pistol kicked in his hand, a solid, numbing blow. He didn't hesitate. He shifted, aimed at the second hinge, and fired again. Another deafening report.
Silence rushed back in, his ears now ringing with a new, high-pitched whine over the old one. He scrambled back to the specter. The hinges were shattered, mangled metal now exposed. He got back into the van, rummaged under the passenger seat, and pulled out a heavy red fire extinguisher.
He swung it like a sledgehammer, banging it against the machine’s back plate. The metal groaned. He pried at the seam with the edge of the canister, then resorted to kicks and stomps, his boots slamming against the compromised armor. With a final, shrieking protest of tearing metal, the plate buckled and flew open.
He reached into the cavity, his movements frantic and blind in the dim light. Wires, components, all alien and unreadable. His hand closed around a bundle of thick cables connected to a lunchbox-sized component. He followed it to a smaller, secondary box. “Redundant supply?” he wondered aloud, the thought a ghost of his more academic past.
He disconnected the cables from the big box and, with the medical pliers, stripped the thick insulation away, baring the copper cores. He dragged the car battery closer, the dead weight a final effort. He pressed the bare copper wires against the terminals.
Nothing.
— No, no, no… — he muttered, a fresh wave of despair washing over him.
He switched the cables around, a desperate, last-ditch guess. He touched them to the terminals again. A brilliant, angry spark erupted, followed by a low, rising hum. Inside the chassis, a constellation of tiny status lights flickered to life, casting a weak, red and blue glow into the cavity. The specter on the ground jolted, its limbs seizing for a moment in a sudden, violent spasm before falling still again. But the hum remained. A deep, resonant thrum of power, like a mechanical heart beginning to beat.
He jumped to the other side, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked around the street, his four eyes scanning the shadows, the rooftops, expecting screeching fauna or a silent Strider's leg to come piercing out of the dark.
But instead of eyes, all he found being displayed on the specter's face was a little pixelated throbber animation, a simple circle of light, circling and circling around in the center of the dark display.
— Come on... — he whispered, his breath held. — ...come on.. wake up...
The light went off. The display went black.
Then it flashed. The specter's digital eyes ignited, a sharp, angular pair of glyphs. The animation on the matrixial display was crude in definition but fluid, a synthetic approximation of life. It looked left, then right, the glyphs shifting and focusing while its body remained prone on the ground, seemingly acting startled.
— Civilian... — its voice was the same synthesized tone, but laced with a new, processing lag. — Are you okay?
— Yes! — Mohopu yelled, then contained himself, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. — Yes, I am, officer. What happened?
— I'm not sure. Hardware damage seems compatible with an electromagnetic attack. — its eyes glitched and faltered for a moment, the glyphs fragmenting into static before snapping back into focus. — This unit finds itself still in operational status... Did you take my primary battery, civilian? — The specter's hand patted its own chest, the motion slightly uncoordinated, finding the jagged hole in its back.
— Yes I had to. It's completely fried... I think your reset switch also failed to keep you awake.
— Thanks. But I think it's safer for the both of us if you return my issued weapon, sir. — It extended a hand as it slowly, deliberately, pushed itself up onto its knees, its movements regaining their precise, mechanical grace.
— Oh sure... — Mohopu handed the heavy pistol over, grip first. — I figured out that if the battery didn't work, at least this could protect me.
— You need to relocate to the nearest shelter. — Chase stated, securing the weapon back into its chest-mounted holster with a click.
— I can't. I mean. I can't for now. — Mohopu stood his ground, clutching his data chip. — I have a message from the university to deliver to the army... or navy...
— This is a planet-wide catastrophe, sir. Your academic— — Chase paused, his head tilting a precise five degrees. — Wait. Navy?
— Yes. I just... just came from the observatory. Doctor Kalendra gave me a chip for the security forces. Apparently it's important intel about the invasion.
Chase took the proffered steelglass chip. He held it, and a thin, red laser scanned its surface from a port in his palm. There was a moment of silence, filled only by the hum of his own systems and the distant, ever-present chorus of the dying city.
— ...I've updated my security protocols. — The specter's voice was flat, but the implication was immense. He handed the chip back to Mohopu and began strapping his damaged vest back on over the exposed wiring in his back. — You are coming with me. I'll take you to command once we regroup with my unit or other security officials.
— So... "Chase"... — Mohopu asked upon reading the ID band strapped to its vest. — Where's the rest of your unit?
The specter seemed to not acknowledge him for a moment, its head turning on a precise axis to evaluate their surroundings, its digital eyes flickering a little bit erratically as it processed the new, post-EMP environment.
— That's the question of the day, sir... — it paused, the synthetic voice lagging for a microsecond. — ...
— Mohopu. Kolempe Mohopu. The...
— The news weather broadcast anchor. Yes.
— That's it, — he rolled his eyes at the title, the gesture feeling absurdly normal.
— There are no signs of recent conflict since my last scan. Sergeant Gora must have taken my battle rifle and followed through with our escort mission...
— What about the others?
— She is the 'others'. — Chase turned to Mohopu, the pixelated glyphs of its eyes managing to convey a look of pure resignation, despite the flat tone of its voice. — Five civilians. Two adults, three children.
— How are we gonna find them?
— Short-range radio is non-operational, primarily after the EMP. My best guess is that she stuck to the plan. And found her way through the underground tunnels. Either the service galleries or the metro, to get out of the city perimeter. It is how we planned to extract the remaining population without the crossfire.
— Hmm. Great, then.
— Not so much. — Chase verified the ammunition in the pistol magazine with a sharp click-clack. — Gora's tactical thinking, although understandable, has left us without the means to put up a fight. We must avoid conflict at all costs. — It holstered the weapon. — You keep the chip. My base strength might be able to protect you for a while, but do not count on it. If I say run, you run.
Mohopu nodded, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. He followed the specter as it moved out, professionally clearing the street a few meters up ahead, its head on a constant, silent swivel, actively scanning the shadows between the shattered buildings.
The command center was a tomb illuminated by frantic, tiny suns. Flashlights beam across maps, officers lit candles with trembling hands, their faces hollowed out by the stark shadows. The only constant light was the hellish show beyond the open tent flaps: the silent, flashing ballet of the aerial firefight, and in the distance, the deep, sullen red of a new sun, the mushroom cloud over the coast, still blooming.
— How much longer till power is established? — The Colonel’s voice was gravel, his silhouette outlined against the doom-glow.
A soldier hurried over, lighting the Colonel’s cigar with a shaky hand.
— We're still preparing the generator, sir. Ten minutes, sir. — The soldier’s face, lit for a second by the lighter, was a mask of grime and terror, his eyes reflecting the distant firestorm.
Before the soldier could step away, Opel Moreé shoved past him, his flight suit streaked with soot, two junior officers trying and failing to hold him back.
— What the fuck was that, Colonel?! — Opel yelled, gesturing wildly towards the horrific horizon. — A surface nuke? Was that your brilliant plan?!
The Colonel took a long, slow drag on his cigar, the ember glowing fiercely in the dimness. — What do you expect me to do, Lieutenant? Wait politely for them to finish drinking the Northern Sea? This move was approved by the President himself. A test of our defensive capability. A final argument before we authorise a full strategic salvo.
— ...Drinking the ocean?... — Opel’s furious tirade died in his throat. He paused, the words cutting through his rage.
The Colonel didn’t answer immediately. He turned and slapped a series of infrared photographs onto the table. They showed the massive hemispherical ships suspended over the water, glowing columns sucking the sea into their bellies.
— They aren't here for us, Moreé. They're after something in the water. Archeology. Fish. A goddamn rescue mission. Whatever it is, the sea level has been unstable for the past few hours. — The Colonel’s voice grew quieter, deadlier. — And it's been over an hour since we lost contact with every other defensive front on the planet. They're all over the place. Not even the poles. Not even the Rockies are being spared. It's as if they despise our geography and are trying to flatten it out.
Opel leaned forward, his hands gripping the table.
— Then a nuke is a firecracker to them! You heard my report. The Chelok fleet is our only chance. We stall, we hold, we let them engage. We increase our survival chances without turning the entire atmosphere into poison!
The Colonel sank into his chair, the weight of the world—the ending world—bowing his shoulders. He let out a weary, defeated sigh.
— I... we thought about it. It is possible. We could get a large enough freighter, rig its M/AM driver to overload, and plow it into their fleet. Or the mothership. — He looked up, his eyes meeting Opel’s, devoid of any hope. — … That is if we ever get the airspace clearance for that.
— But that would probably set off a fireball the size of South Sidessia. It would glass the whole coast and two hundred kilometers inland. There would be no 'inland' left to retreat to.
A new sound began, gentle at first. A soft tap... tap... tap on the heavy tarp overhead.
Then it thickened. The taps became a drumbeat, then a roar. A torrential downpour. Through the open flap, they could see the rain falling in thick, grey sheets.
An official near the entrance wiped the moisture from his face with his hand, then stared at it. He slowly took off his glasses, cleaned them on his shirt, and put them back on. He looked at the grime washing from his arms. With a quiet, final gesture, he threw his officer's cap onto the muddy floor and stepped fully into the downpour, tilting his head back to the black, weeping sky.
— Don't worry about it... — he said, his voice barely audible over the rain. — We probably won't live long enough to get sick anyway.
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