Chapter Four
Hivestorm
The wastes of Peter Patterson’s world are fraught with many dangers. Starvation and dehydration are just as likely to kill you as a Saberhound or Dustshark, and the threat of getting lost in a storm or swallowed by a Dustdune was ever-present. Yet, the thing out in that desolate expanse men feared most was the Chitirin.
Peter had never laid eyes on the insectoid natives of his world before, but he’d grown up on horror stories all about them. They were massive, eight-foot-tall beetle-like creatures that lurked beneath the hardpan wastes. As intelligent and ingenuitous as men but twice as strong and three times as savage, they had hunted humans since the first settlements, dragging captives to their subterranean nests for reasons yet undiscovered. That hadn’t stopped speculation, though, and Peter had heard his share of terrible theories. Some said the Chitirin enslaved humans, others that they ate them or made them fight for sport. The worst story Peter had ever heard theorised about a queen-like bug. It needed warm hosts to lay its eggs, turning captive humans into living incubators. A tormented existence endured until, at last, thousands of crawling larvae burst free and, mercifully, devoured the host.
Naturally, those horrors were Peter's first thought when Old Man Crouch declared the ‘Bugmen’ had come. Peter went cold with terror.
“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!” The full emotion of the profanity was dulled by the mechanical voice box of the coachmen, but that didn’t make his outburst panic Peter any less. The coachman and his accomplices bolted to the driver compartment, vanishing inside. Moments later, all five coachmen emerged, rifles in hand, stepping into the storm. “Take up positions,” Peter couldn’t tell if it was the same speaker. “We ain’t got long. Dale—see if any passengers know how to shoot.” One coachman rushed to the passenger compartment while the others climbed the coach’s massive, armoured chassis and pointed their weapons into the air, tracking shadows in the dust motes.
“Mr Patterson, if you’d be so kind, come with me.” Mr Revel, calm as ever, strolled leisurely past Peter, who gawked in disbelief. “Unless you’ve somewhere better to be.”
Peter could think of a dozen places he’d rather be but took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, and followed Mr Revel to the rear of the coach. His eyes darted frantically through the billowing dust. Peter thought he heard bursts of thrumming wings and chitinous caws. Each sound made him flinch.
Mr Revel opened the luggage compartment and rifled through it. He pulled three boxes from one of Peter’s remaining delivery crates. “What are you doing?” Peter’s heart raced before he realised it wasn’t the Miracle Springs package. The Toff ignored Peter. One by one, he opened the boxes, calm and methodical. Each was felt-lined with deep grooves carved to snugly house its contents. The first, the smallest box, had a groove shaped like a pistol, though the weapon was missing. Mr Revel pocketed the remaining shot charges. The next two were larger: one held a chrome rifle, the other a wide-barrelled pump gun, which Mr Revel offered to Peter.
“You know how to shoot, lad?” The Toff’s tone very much indicated that it didn’t matter either way. Peter took the gun. It was heavy, cumbersome, and cold against his skin, which only worsened his trembling.
“How did you know these would be here?”
Mr Revel shut the boot and headed toward the coachmen’s defensive positions, leaving Peter no choice but to follow. “Guns, ammo, water, medicine—that’s ninety percent of deliveries in the wastes. Odds were you’d have something useful.”
When they reached the coachmen, all five were crouched on top of the coach, using its armoured shell for cover. Old Man Crouch was the only passenger to join them, his double-barrelled grenade launcher aimed and ready. Mr Revel climbed the side of the transport, turned, and offered Peter a hand. Peter took it.
“Yes,” Peter stated as he and Mr Revel came face to face. Mr Revel’s look was questioning. “I know how to shoot,” Peter clarified. Everyone on Peter’s world knew how to shoot. It was part and parcel of growing up. Whether in the wastes, the streets of Salt City, or a Toff’s mansion, shooting was the only way to guarantee tomorrow. Peter, however, had grown up poor, shooting small-calibre rifles at tin cans in back alleys—not at giant alien bugs trying to eat you.
“Good,” Mr Revel took position behind a sharp edge of the coach roof and gestured for Peter to take a spot nearby. “You should be fine then.” Peter swallowed painfully, his throat dry and tight. Mr Revel made it sound simple, but Peter knew that he had never been in more danger than he was now.
“Here they come!” The coachman’s voice lacked Mr Revel’s composure.
The attack lasted minutes at most. First, the creatures closed in—a swarm of airborne silhouettes darting around the far side of the thick dust clouds, their shadows making them appear like giants. It was as if the great primordial beasts of old had encircled them, and Peter was frozen in freight.
The coachman began—the first shots rang out. Their rifles were the old combustion style Peter was familiar with—semi-automatic, firing bursts of solid projectiles that punched channels through the billowing dust. Peter couldn’t tell if they hit anything, but an echoing hiss carried through the storm—Peter feared it sounded an awful lot like a war cry. Then, the bugmen struck.
They came from above, whipping through the dense dust to snatch at the humans. The coachmen ducked each attack, firing wildly to drive the shadows back. One coachman was lifted into the air, rising several feet per second. “Dale!” a metallic voice cried helplessly. The sharp whizz of a shot followed. The creature cried out. Dale fell like a stone onto the coach’s hull, a sickening crunch of bone as he impacted. Peter’s head snapped toward the sound of the shot and he saw Mr Revel, chrome rifle billowing with smoke. The high-powered las rifle was far more effective than the coachmen’s weapons, and Peter realised Mr Revel had claimed the first kill. The Chitirin answered with a chorus of war cries, and their own weapons responding.
One coachman was struck so hard he was hurled from the coach roof, dead before he hit the ground. A spear almost twice the man’s size pinned him to the world's surface. An energy blast hit another, and his screams filled the air as flames consumed him. The aliens had been toying with them, but Mr Revel’s kill marked them as a threat—and the bugmen were done playing.
A thud and tremor announced the arrival of one of the creatures on the far side of the coach roof. Peter finally saw one of the beasts for the first time. It was humanoid—up to a point. It had a head, two arms, and two legs, but the similarities ended there. Huge and lumbering, its wide body was covered in a bright orange, armour-like carapace. Hatred gazed at him through six pupilless black eyes. Peter froze. Unable to act. At the mercy of this thing. Then, the creature exploded. Orange skin and purple ichor shredded and sprayed through the air. “Take that, you ugly bastard.” Old Man Crouch’s grenade launcher proved even deadlier than Mr Revel’s rifle.
The old man never fired another shot. Seconds later, several of the creatures lifted him into the air. One gutted him with a circular dagger while the others tore at him with taloned hands. A crimson shower rained over Peter as the old man’s severed arm landed on the coach beside him.
Silent tears streaked down Peter’s face. It wasn’t grief—he’d barely known Old Man Crouch. It was fear that made Peter cry. His life would end here, before he even had a chance to make a go of it. He wept for what could have been.
A pair of alien feet landed beside the severed arm. Peter’s eyes slowly traced upward, meeting the monstrous face. Peter screamed, falling backwards as he pulled the trigger of his pump gun. A massive burst of energy erupted, the force of it wrenching the weapon from his hands. He didn’t know if he hit anything.
The wind was knocked from his lungs as he hit the hardpan surface with a jarring thud. He couldn’t move. One of the creatures was on him. He didn’t know if it was the same one. It grabbed at his arms, and Peter struggled weakly against its grip. A pair of huge, clattering mandibles framed a hissing, fanged mouth, saliva dripping onto Peter’s face. The beast’s strength overwhelmed him, and Peter felt himself being lifted off the ground. The bugman’s head burst, and its massive body collapsed on top of Peter, pinning him.
Peter couldn’t breathe—the creature’s weight was crushing.
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The last thing Peter saw was Mr Revel, another of the clawing beasts looming over him, some invisible force holding it back. Sandy particles swirled around the talons that strained to reach him. Mr Revel gripped a chrome pistol, smoke curling from its barrel. It was pointing Peter’s way.
The world swam before Peter’s eyes, and then everything went dark.
“My feet hurt.” The speaker had been complaining for hours, and Peter had every inclination to tell them to shut up. Then, as his senses returned, Peter realised he had been the complainer, and his feet did hurt.
He was tugged forward by a course sharpness around his wrists. His hands were bound, and someone was pulling him with a rope. The storm was gone, leaving a calm day. Peter was being led across the open hardpan, with nothing in sight as far as the eye could see.
“Where are we?”
“Ah,” Mr Revel exclaimed, his image sharpening in Peter’s vision. “It appears Mr Patterson has rejoined the living.”
“Where are we?” Peter’s head throbbed, and speaking pained his raw throat. As his bearings returned, he realised the rope binding his hands also tethered Mr Revel and several others.
“If I were a betting man, and I am, I’d wager just a bit north of the middle of nowhere,” Mr Revel smiled over his shoulder, glancing back as the rope tugged him forward. The group marched in a line, led by one of the massive Chitirin—their captor. Several more of the creatures formed a loose perimeter around the group. Some carried spears and daggers, while others carried white plastic funnel-like weapons—Peter presumed these were the energy blasters he had seen used in the attack. From time to time, one of the creatures’ wings would buzz sharply, propelling it rapidly across the surface and kicking up dust in its wake. It made the beasts appear erratic and all the more threatening because of it.
They’d lost. Peter realised they were about to disappear, just like so many victims of the bugmen before them. “What do they want with us?” Peter didn’t really want to know.
“Better not ask,” Mr Revel seemed unreasonably chipper, as if such peril was routine for him. “They have been in a bit surly mood, these tour guides of ours. I’m not sure they are the type to take questions.”
“What?” It was the only thing Peter could think to say. Then, the stories from his youth came rushing back. “I hope they just eat us.” Mr Revel chuckled merrily.
“Quite a character, that one.” Peter didn’t recognise this new voice. Looking over his shoulder, he saw one of the coachmen, now without his facemask or voice modulator. The young man, just a few years older than Peter, was sweating profusely as he struggled to support another—a second coachman with a broken leg, bone jutting gruesomely from the skin. The sight of the wound brought back the sickening crunching sound of Dale hitting the coach roof, and Peter shivered. Dale seemed barely conscious, his head lolling as the young coachman carried him. “He almost seems like he’s enjoying all this.”
Peter turned his gaze back to Mr Revel, who was calmly focused on the path ahead. While everyone else was covered in dust, blood, and wounds, Mr Revel seemed hardly fazed. His suit was still remarkably clean, the dust just rolling off it, and Peter saw no injury upon the man. Mr Revel’s good fortune vexed Peter, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered if the man was in cahoots with the aliens. But then Peter remembered the battle—how Mr Revel had saved him—and dismissed the absurd thought.
“Thank you.” Mr Revel glanced over his shoulder, his expression questioning. “For saving me.”
“Think nothing of it, lad.”
Peter smiled briefly, though it faded quickly. Then he looked out over the vast nothingness that surrounded him. He thought of the package now abandoned in the boot of the coach miles behind. His chance at a better life—snatched away by the wastes. Peter sighed.
“What happened to my husband?”
Mrs Boaden had been silent for hours, the trauma of the attack weighing on her more visibly than anyone else. Her dress was torn where the bugmen had wrestled her into submission. Her make-up was smeared, streaked by tears and frantic rubbing. She hobbled as she walked, her movements burdened by painful blisters. Mr Boaden was nowhere to be seen.
“What happened to my husband?” Her voice grew louder as her pace quickened, and she marched toward the bugman holding the slaver’s rope. “What happened to my husband,” she shouted, reaching out with her bound hands toward the creature. The bugman turned on her with a deafening roar, and Mrs Boaden stumbled backwards, startled. The bugman dismissed her, turned away and continued his journey, tugging the rope more harshly now.
“I’m afraid your husband is dead ma’am,” Mr Revel walked levelly beside the woman. “You, however, are not. Best not to do anything to change that.”
Peter’s heart ached as he watched the dawning horror on Mrs Boaden’s face. She asked no more questions.
The young coachman collapsed to his knees, the weight of the unconscious Dale too much to carry. The Chitirin screeched in protest, kicking at him viciously. The coachman shouted back in defiance. In response, one of the Chitirin lashed out, its claws slicing two deep gashes across his cheek.
One of the Chitirin, whom Peter assumed to be their leader—its face painted white with ash—stepped forward to examine Dale. It chirped and chittered at the others before snatching Dale from the young coachman and dragging him away. The aliens allowed the humans to sit and rest while they began to feast on the corpse. Peter couldn’t watch.
“Where are they taking us?” They had walked through an endless day and night, and now the grey haze of the morning sun was beginning to rise. He was bored. He was tired. He was hungry, and so thirsty his throat felt like leather, his lips like cracked rocks. But most of all, his feet hurt. He just wanted to know how much longer he’d have to endure it.
No one answered. “Where are you taking us?” If none of the humans knew, he figured he might as well ask the bugs. There was no response. He repeated the question, louder this time. Still, the silence stretched on.
“Don’t.” The young coachman was sullen. Watching a friend be eaten was hard on the man, and Peter couldn’t help but pity him.
“Why not? They're going to eat us anyway.” Peter muttered to himself more than anyone else. Then, a thought struck him. “If we got free, could you find your way back to the coach?” The coachman’s eyes widened, and for a moment, Peter thought his question had startled him. Then he realised the man wasn’t looking at him—he was staring over his shoulder. Peter spun, but before he could react, Mr Revel tackled him, and they hit the ground hard.
The first shot killed a Chitirin, and so did the second. The third, unfortunately, struck Mrs Boaden.
She looked so still. That was what perplexed Peter the most. Peter had seen dead bodies before—it was part and parcel of growing up poor on his world.
In the streets and back alleys of Salt City, he’d seen the victims of gangs and other ne’er-do-wells left to rot. He’d seen the homeless and desperate fade away, unnoticed as the city’s indifference rolled on, the bloated, stinking forms ignored as much in death as they had been in life. But this was the first time he’d watched someone he knew—someone he’d spoken to—die before his eyes. It felt different—less real, somehow. It was as if the body lying before him and the woman he’d spoken with on the coach were two entirely different beings. It didn’t look like her. The body was too still, the skin too taut, pale, and thin. Her eyes, they didn’t belong to her. He closed them gently, unable to bear their sight any longer.
She’d been shot in the chest—a high-powered las round searing through flesh and bone, boiling her blood and fluids within. She’d died instantly, a small mercy Peter clung to amid the horror.
Peter looked up from her body to the rangers—his saviours and her murderers. They ignored her corpse entirely. Perhaps they couldn’t face what they’d done, Peter thought. Or perhaps they didn’t care.
A squadron of twenty rangers on patrol had spotted the Chitirin and ambushed them. The battle was over in less than a minute. High-powered las shots streaked across the wastes. When the bugmen took to the skies, several rangers followed on back-mounted jet packs. The bugs were large and fast, but they were outnumbered and outmanoeuvred. Even so, they managed to bring down two rangers before the fight was over. They looked not unlike the coachmen, with their thick linen wraps to guard against the dust, but their flak-armoured suits set them apart. Their grey-brown flak suits blended with the dust, and high-tech face masks replaced the simpler goggles worn by the coachmen.
Mr Revel and the surviving coachman were speaking with a ranger—likely the commanding officer—while the rest retrieved their vehicles: two crawlers and a dozen scramblers. The rangers placed their fallen comrades in the boot of a crawler. No one came for Mrs Boaden. Peter’s jaw wound tightly, and he bit back his anger.
“What happens now,” Peter had made his way to join Mr Revel and the others, interrupting them. Mr Revel and the coachmen looked to the ranger.
“We’re operating out of Sunreach ,” The ranger’s voice was made even colder and more cybernetic than the coachmen by his mask. “We’re going to take you back there. You’ll be safe.”
“No.” Mr Revel raised an eyebrow at Peter. “I need to get back to the coach—then to Saltwater Ridge.” The young coachman’s mouth fell slightly open, while the ranger’s frustration was unmistakable. “I have packages to deliver,” Peter explained firmly.
“‘Well, good luck with that. We’re going to Sunreach.” Peter’s fists clenched at his sides as a flash of anger surged through him.
“No, the lad is right. We need to return to the coach.” The ranger’s cockiness faded as Mr Revel spoke in Peter’s support. “There could be survivors,” Mr Revel added, his tone measured. “And we’d like to retrieve our belongings, if we can.”
The eyeless lenses of the ranger leader burrowed into Mr Revel. Peter wondered what was going through his head. Out here in the wastes, with no witnesses but his own men, he could do as he pleased. Yet the man before him had endured a storm, a Chitirin ambush, and abduction, and not a speck of dust marred his jacket. Peter knew as little about Mr Revel as the ranger did, but both knew money and power when they saw it.
“Fine,” The ranger’s tone was curt as he motioned to a group of subordinates. “These men will take you in a crawler—to the coach only. Saltwater is over four hundred miles away, and I need my men back in Sunreach. You leave in five. You going with them?” The young coachman shook his head in response. “Smart boy, come with me.” The ranger led the only surviving coachman away.
Peter let out a sigh of relief. Maybe the packages in the coach’s boot were still intact. Maybe there was still a chance to complete his deliveries. He still had a shot at changing his life—and it was all thanks to Mr Revel, who had already saved him twice. As they stood alone, Peter glanced at Mr Revel, who was quietly studying a letter he’d pulled from his breast pocket.
“What’s your story Mr?” Peter asked. The Toff glanced up, offering a faint smile, but said nothing.