Augustus raced away from the bastion, leaping aside as an artillery shell flattened the ground where he was a moment ago. Unlike his students, his power armor was of a biological nature. It had several distinct advantages over normal power suits. There was no need to adjust it to his size or worry about changes in his body; the biological structure of his armor adapted to such changes. Even should he lose an arm or have his tendons cut, the armor would let Augustus use his limb with some efficiency. And rather than relying on an energy source, the biological plate accumulated nutrients and could stably function for years.
But it had its drawbacks. It took too long to repair in combat, so Augustus built his entire fighting style around dodging blows. He rode the shockwave, increasing the distance between himself and his pursuers, before jumping to his feet and running toward a hollow ahead. Like he expected, in their eagerness to get to him, the Condemned turned off the minefield.
A set of eyes at the back of his suit warned Augustus about an incoming shot, and he whirled around, splitting four 18mm rounds in the air. The officer. Where the turrets of the main battle tank were spitting out rounds without a care in the world, the large man fired with deadly precision, taking his time. Worse, his fire slowed Augustus down, allowing the armored vehicles to close the gap between them. Augustus’ legs touched the edge of the hollow behind him, and he tumbled back, rolling across the slope.
The lead vehicle nearly rammed the explorator with its rotating blades as it followed after him, despite the officer’s angry shouts. The man understood the situation, but his minions, their ranks thinned by the long war, became overzealous. And paid for it. An explosion lifted the exposed belly of the steel beast upward, making the Condemned on top of it grab the turret tower. A brilliant explosion birthed beneath the vehicle’s belly; a corona of white-hot flame licked and melted both the hull and the caterpillar treads. The next ordinance punched the armor of another vehicle, lifting it into the air. With a groan, both tanks tried to fall to the slope, only for the follow-up vehicles to ram into them.
“Don’t think, Vasily,” Augustus said, tasting the boy’s hesitation. “You’re doing great. Concentrate on thinning the targets’ ranks.”
The trainee said nothing and fired his grenade launcher again, lobbing the explosive into the driver’s cabin of an infantry carrier. He and Carlos were both waiting at the ambush spot on the opposite side of the hollow. Its natural walls provided some protection against the bastion’s artillery, and the sheer speed with which the pursuers rushed after Augustus sent their vehicles flying off the edge. And with the two of them being beaten back by the explosives, the rest came crashing into their rears, jamming the exit doors of the infantry.
Vasily hadn’t chosen to specialize in exotic weaponry, sticking to a trusty and proven Army-issued grenade launcher and a close-range SMG. The tips of his grenades were fitted with small drills that were activated after firing. When the projectile made contact with an obstacle, it bored through metal and then exploded. The shockwave and shrapnel flew in all directions, setting everything ablaze, and a thin stream of superheated plasma passed through the drill, melting it and spreading through the vehicle. Augustus heard the boy’s gasp as a Condemned showed up from a battle tank. The man’s lower body merged with the overheated liquid steel, and his screams filled the night. The soldier’s torture ended in a flash; another tank thundered down the slope, reducing the man to a bloody smear.
Esmeralda’s shot veered the vehicle off its path. Her shot destroyed the tread and tore through the vehicle, killing at least one soldier and wounding the rest of the crew. Edward’s shot pierced the turret of another tank, taking the head off a soldier. Augustus whistled, and the twins shifted their aim, firing at the defenders on the bastion to distract them. Esmeralda timed her shot to counter a moving, emplaced artillery piece, sending the supersonic projectile down the barrel. It passed through the tube, exploded the shell in the jacket, and sent the rest of the construction toppling. The shells’ explosion did the rest, throwing the crew off the wall to their deaths and injuries. An oracle showed up at the wall, raising a hand high. Sickly streams of light started appearing from underneath her vambrace, gathering in an orb in her palm. Augustus had no idea what the woman was trying to do as Edward’s shot left a gaping hole in her heart and the oracle fell dead.
Augustus had his doubts about the twins. Often they would tremble and pale during combat training, struggling to withstand their teammates’ rage and desire to defeat an opponent. But on this night, the twins showed their solid core, silencing their fears and worries. Out of all the trainees under his command, they matured the first. The lives of their allies depended on them. And both kids struck the armored vehicles without a hint of mercy, uncaring about ending lives. They fired five times and packed up their gear, running back to the aircraft as the stone cliff behind them exploded in a fury of artillery shells coming from the bastion. There would be no more sniper support for a time.
“Carlos,” Augustus said.
“On it, Instructor!” Carlos replied.
Augustus came to the first fallen troop carrier. The soldiers within had finally pried the door open. Augustus cut off the wrist of the soldier trying to climb out and threw a grenade inside, passing by the doomed transport. He let the blast carry him onto another wreck and buried one of his sabers through a crack closer to a tank’s turret, piercing the temple of a soldier inside. A hatch opened beside him, and four soldiers, one in a power armor, climbed out.
They fired at him, but Augustus had already torn his weapon free and was in the middle of them, cutting a swath through their ranks. With a flick of his wrist, his blade sliced through a woman’s ankles. A stomp ended her life as he retreated, stepping back from an arc of fire. Two swings left the throats of the Condemned open, and the explorator moved on, ignoring their gurgling.
This was just a job. A job he could’ve done in a less bloody way given more time, but a job nonetheless. The armored Condemned let go of his machine gun and reached for a two-handed sword behind his back. With a roar, he swung the weapon overhead at Augustus. The explorator deflected the blade with the left saber, letting the sword bounce off the tank’s armor. With his right hand, he sliced at the man’s fingers, causing the Condemned to curse in pain as four of his fingers fell off. Despite the pain, the Condemned lunged, aiming to tackle Augustus to let his companion finish him off.
The explorator evaded the massive body, leaving a deep gash in the man’s armor. The monomolecular edge had failed to fully penetrate the thick plate of the man’s side, and the Condemned started bringing his sword to the side. Augustus gained the distance away from the man and brought the tip of his saber at the remaining soldier. To his surprise, she got pushed out of the way by the Condemned’s shoulder, and the thrust pierced through the rubberized collar of the power armor, splitting the vertebrae. Augustus twisted the saber, killing the man, and kicked the other soldier with enough force to leave a dent in her chest. She flew back and slammed into the tank’s turret, leaving a bloody bulge in the back of her head as her battle helmet came apart. The soldier’s body collapsed, but Augustus refrained from finishing her. Her spine was broken. No longer a threat. In a few hours, she’ll choke on the blood in her lungs. Let a chance to decide her fate.
Carlos’ blurred form spewed bullets. The boy used the Barjonis’ SMGs, rather elegant and deadly weapons. Capable of using both normal and energy ammunition, these weapons complemented his speed perfectly. He should have reaped a dead toll in dozens. But as the streak of blue weaved across the crushed vehicles, disabling the few still-working weapons, he left moaning bodies in his wake. Carlos kneecapped and shot through the elbows of every soldier in his path, but he had yet to kill anyone.
A tank’s tower turned, taking aim at Vasily, who was busy firing at the retreating armor. Both Carlos and Augustus saw it, but Carlos acted faster. The barrels of his weapons flashed; a twin laser beam pierced through the tank’s tower and a cowering soldier behind it, slicing the woman in half. Augustus heard the boy’s gasp and jumped to him, blocking a shot aimed at his back. There was no real need for it; Carlos’ armor should have endured the bullet just fine. But he refused to let him be alone, filthy Barjoni upstart or not. Not everyone could take a life freely, without a care, and that was fine. Good even. Augustus was at fault for bringing his students here, and it was his duty to see them get out alive.
“Carlos,” Augustus said, and a grenade flew over him, exploding a group of soldiers. “Breathe.”
“Carlos, if you need a moment, fall back,” Vasily yelled, reloading his weapon. “No one’s gonna fault you.”
“I am fine.” Barjoni shook his head and raised his weapons, firing at the nearby soldier. Four bullets hit the man in the shoulders and legs, immobilizing him. “I… It just… hard. Sorry, Vasily, Instructor.”
“For what?” Vasily asked.
“You are not a burden, Carlos. But we must continue the operation to complete our mission and return home alive and well. Can I count on you?” Augustus asked.
“Always, Instructor!” The boy raced across the battlefield, bringing his foot to the back of a soldier trying to crawl out of the wreckage of his vehicle. The soldier’s body twitched, and Carlos held back the full brunt of his stomp, only pinning his opponent. With the next kick, he knocked the man out and shot dead another soldier who tried to fire at Vasily.
“Good enough,” Augustus said. The massive tank ahead shook. And not from an explosion. The officer from before was standing up, pushing the massive machine ahead and dropping it back on the ruined treads. The man stood up at the back of his vehicle and surveyed the situation. Abnormal. “Trainees. Stay clear from this one,” Augustus gave the order and made his way to the enemy, slashing at the soldiers trying to escape.
****
The trainees entered the Ascension Tower. Ratcatcher expected to be met by hundreds of zombies, all eager to gnaw the flesh off their bones. But instead, a single wide pathway was leading to the central platform, from which circular staircases led to the operations center above. The metal was ridden with patches of dust, and the tower walls were dark and decorated by Chosen Prince banners. No one had bothered to light the bronze braziers; in fact, the dust had been covering the floor, marked with only a few steps and wide traces of dried-up blood in places where Oracles were dragging bodies.
“Where is everyone?” Ratcatcher asked, keeping swinging her head left and right.
Several tunnels encircled the tower. Alcoves with symbols of the Planet stood empty, with no one to bring prayers. Battle maps had long been abandoned, and rich trophy coffins, filled to the brim with gold and jewelry, stood unattended. One room was an operating table, a place fit to encase Oracles in proper armor after their ascension. Crude saws, needles, hatches, pincers, and other equipment hung from the ceiling on craned mechanical arms, long since out of use.
“Only Oracles, doctors, and their guards are allowed inside,” Elina whispered. She looked up and pointed at the lights coming from the control center. “See? Shamblers are up here, maintaining the equipment, but I bet most of the Oracles are either in the Factory or at the walls. And doctors are needed to treat their human allies. No point in staying in a dead place, I suppose.”
“All the better for us,” Rowen said, gulping. “L-Lets get the corpse and get out. The place is giving me the creeps.”
“You and me both,” Elina agreed.
“Add a third one to the mix.” Ratcatcher grasped her weapon closer.
The place oozed wrongness. She could’ve sworn that she could hear the prayers and pleas of all the people who had been killed here. Wordless moans begging for water. Screams of terror as civilians were dropped from a high platform. The grinding and sawing of machines on their patients. And the chanting of the Oracles, praising their dreadful liege. The movement of contorted flesh could be heard with the never-ending wet pops. A place of evil and madness, and they were right in its belly. It sent shivers down her spine, and Ratcatcher promised herself to get a video of the damn tower collapsing, just for karmic justice’s sake. Or better yet, maybe she could ask the Oathtakers to let her level it. Even if she had to spend a whole week setting up explosives, it would be so worth it.
The group came to a round platform in the center. It was made in the shape of an iron grid, with a single ceremonial slab of black bronze in the center. A six-limbed metal statue rested on the opposite wall, its three-fingered clawed hands raised, gazing at the platform with of armor-glass. And beneath the platform was the pile.
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Bodies. Hundreds, if not thousands, were there, some rotting, some still deadly white. Some bodies were almost round, their limbs and torsos swollen, parts of their skin torn, and disgusting pus and the smell of rotting guts seeping from the cracks. There were no stairs to the foundation of the tower, and the walls were covered with scratches. People tried to get out by standing on each other’s shoulders, trying to find a foothold. But once thrown down, the only fate was to fester and suffer, becoming sicker and…
“Wait!” Ratcatcher cried out, and the HUD of her helmet picked up a movement below. A hand spasmed. She thought it at first to be a result of gas leaving the body, but then another body moved. And someone mewled. Not moaned, the painful sound was distorted. It was a mindless, desperate plea for a quicker demise.
“They…” Elina let go of her shotgun and caught it before the weapon could hit the ground and discharge.
“Good news!” Rowen swallowed, struggling not to throw up in his helmet. “Some of the Iternians are still alive. Hell, even quite a number of the Oathtakers are still alive. Bad news…”
“The Northern Army will level the place during the storm…” Ratcatcher said, trying to comprehend. How many days? Without water, without care for their wounds, smelling the rot, wringing in pus, shit, and blood, inhaling the poison, and…? Iternian implants are marvels, but in this case, they helped prolong the torture. “We can’t leave them.” She shifted her gaze to the control center above.
“Eliza…” Elina started.
“I can’t,” Ratcatcher said stubbornly. “Leave if you must; I won’t think ill of you. But if I can turn off the jammer, then we can contact the Northern Army, and maybe…” she stopped helplessly and reached for the mancatcher. “Maybe.”
“No, you’re right,” Rowen agreed. “We can get what, two, three Iternians out of here? And leave the rest to die? Fuck that, I’m in the mood to kill some bitches.”
“Then…” Elina checked her weapon and nodded. “Follow my lead. We are altering the mission. Time to crash the party.”
****
Augustus climbed on top of the ruined tank. His opponent stood still, one hand at the knob of his axe; the other held his pistol. Recessed lenses were locked at the massacre in the hollow. The cloak caught fire, revealing plain baroque armor underneath, without any visible inscriptions, and with an oversized energy backpack. The edges of his armor were sharpened and bore traces of dried blood. Black cables protruded from beneath the steel mask, disappearing into the gorget. His body was tall and large, but his head was too small, like a bird trapped in a cruel iron cage.
The instructor approached his opponent cautiously, studying the man’s arms and legs. He had the thought that the bastard might be dead. Augustus had seen such strange and sad cases: people bleeding to death inside their power plates, their bodies held upright by the machinery of their gear.
But no. His ears heard the clicks at the back of the Condemned head, some sort of small pistons ramming themselves into his brain. Even from afar, he could hear the beating of a heart beneath the chest plate and heavy breathing.
“I know you,” Augustus said, remembering the man at last. “Praetorian.”
The officer shifted, turning to face him, the remnants of his burning cloak falling off his shoulders. Augustus saw a symbol of the Planet rudely scratched into the right side of the man’s armor.
“Heretic.” Augustus cracked his neck. He wasn’t religious; there were no gods, and this was proven. But the sight enraged him. The Church of the Planet was one of the nicest things in the world, and its priests always strove to aid those in need. “How dare you wear that noble symbol?”
“Because I believe,” Praetorian replied, his voice calm and dry. “Unlike the false believers, I know what the Planet wants.”
“And what might that be?” Augustus asked, biding his time.
“Pain. Have you ever lost a limb?” Praetorian cocked his head, the cables scratching against the edge of his armor. “Have you experienced the helplessness of having your body torn apart against your will and all you can do is watch?”
“Yes,” Augustus answered. “I had my bad day. When everything in my life tumbled down.”
“Hm,” Praetorian let out a calm grunt. “A day. What about a decade of enslavement, a decade of being violated at your owners’ whims? A lifetime of crimson mist cowering in your eyes from the rage grafted onto your brain?” Praetorian lifted the hand with the gun and touched the back of his helmet; his fingers spasmed. “An inability to enjoy a touch of water or the taste of food on your tongue. A need to be fed through the tubes in your veins and never be able to see your own face. I can’t even remember what bread tastes like.”
“Is this supposed to excuse what you did?” Rho asked. “Someone hurt you, and the poor little boy now takes it out on others. Did I get the gist of your whining right?”
“Only the uncertain seek excuses,” Praetorian sighed. “I am merely explaining my reasoning. Treat others the way you yourself want to be treated. The priests got that part right. What they don’t get is that it goes both ways. The Planet hurts us, so we could hurt it in return. It wants to be marred. It wants to suffer.”
“And pray tell me, what is the point of such an existence?” Augustus inquired.
“Point?” Praetorian said. “There is no point, no grand design. We kill for the sake of killing, hurt for the sake of bringing pain, and at the end of it, we understand that none of it matters.”
“So you gained freedom and lived your life for nothing, learning nothing but swinging your axe like a caveman. Although, and to be fair, they had far more dignity than you, the rock paintings outlived them by eons.” Augustus’ lips formed a thin line beneath the helmet. “I am not sure if I should cry or laugh at hearing your story. I think I’ll stick with disgust. Way to waste your life, idiot. At least you could have tried to find a way to get that helmet of yours off your head.”
“Why bother?” Praetorian asked in a dry voice. “The Extinction, the enslavement of my people, every war, every death is a toll demanded by the Planet. You can’t fight gods’ will. There is nothing more in the world than to kill, kill some more, and be killed. Delude yourself all you want, but reality doesn’t care about dreams. Nothing created matters. None of it will last. Only pain and death are constant; they will exist long after the last server containing the useless pictures breaks down.”
“Have you done preaching?” Augustus twirled the sabers in his arms. “The future will be as it will be. I live here and now. And I choose to end you here and now, for you are an affront to humanity, a slight too great for me to overlook.”
The lenses glanced Augustus over, and the oculars shifted with a rolling sound. “Maximillian’s pup. I remember seeing you in this ridiculous armor at that little arena to the north. One of the spawns of your dad stole the body of my sis. Had to end her myself. Always wanted to kill you.”
“I have nothing to do with Maximillian,” Augustus snarled. “If it is vengeance you are after, then you are wasting your anger on the wrong person.”
He saw Praetorian once, when the maddened champion was borrowed by a local ruler for a crowd’s amusement. The man slaughtered his way through dozens of fighters, leaving a trail of corpses, and ended the match by breaking the head of a pleading gladiator against a stone wall. The ruler sought to impress Iterna’s ambassadors, but all they felt was disgust. That night, Augustus stole the artifact from the ruler’s collection, preventing a potential nuclear war in the region. Then the envoys left, hoping to return when the locals had changed for the better.
Their plans were not to be. The Condemned rose up against the cruel masters in the main arena, murdering their oppressors. In a tide of violence, they swept over their neighbors, pillaging and killing with little regard for establishing their rule. Augustus deeply regretted not entering the arena and killing Praetorian when he had the chance. He had witnessed the teen’s brutality back then—the mercilessness with which he pried bones out of other fighters and used them as daggers. But the envoy talked him out of this, stressing that it would only encourage the locals’ violent streak.
Augustus walked on high ground then. And in doing so, he had a hand in the deaths of thousands. Enough with the high road. Whatever sob story the Condemned has lived, his life ends tonight.
“I said nothing of revenge,” Praetorian responded, lifting his axe. “I just want to kill you.”
“Then die disappointed, nihilistic fool.” Augustus raised his weapons.
He started circling around Praetorian when the man lunged at him, bringing his axe in a horizontal arc aimed at his waist. The Condemned took no time to learn his opponent; he didn’t bother to plan his attack, beginning with unbridled aggression from the start. Rho responded in kind, facing him with calm professionalism. Augustus took the brunt of the axe on his blades, using one saber to push the weapon aside and the edge of his other saber down the axe’s haft toward Praetorian’s fingers. A burst of reactive gunfire caused him to step aside; the oversized projectiles left craters in the turrets of the tank behind him.
Praetorian charged after him, not giving the explorator any time to recover. Sparks separated both fighters as their weapons met each other. The Condemned swung his weapon with full force, each strike aimed to split Augustus in two or sever a limb. The might behind his overhead slashes left indentations on the tank’s armor with Augustus’ armored feet. But at the same time, Praetorian fought with controlled rage, refusing to leave an opening for Augustus to capitalize on and always bringing back his weapon just in time to block a counterattack.
Augustus met his fury with cold efficiency. He went into full defense, studying his opponent. Explosions and gunfire rang out around their arena, but Augustus kept his cool, trusting Carlos and Vasily to keep themselves safe. The two boys had long since finished off most of the enemy resistance and were now dragging the wounded from the wrecked vehicles, carrying them away before the artillery could bombard the wreckage and the people with it. If a soldier tried to resist, Carlos would shoot the bastard, not to death, but to immobilization. A misplaced mercy.
The instructor blocked a slash with his saber, leaving a deep cut at Praetorian’s right leg, but failing to reach the flesh inside. Another burst of bullets caused him to retreat a few steps, swatting the projectiles aside with his weapons. Praetorian’s swing came next, and Augustus met it with crisscrossed blades, kicking the enemy into the abdomen and sending him reeling backward. Praetorian wanted to drive him to the edge of the tank, and so Augustus brought the fight back to the center.
What happened to the Condemned was horrible; there was no denying it. An entire nation was sold into slavery to the worst masters possible. But where others would break, wither, and die, the Condemned embraced the wickedness, grew stronger from the pain, and broke the chains of their oppression, celebrating their freedom with brutality against all and bringing single-minded individuals into the fold. They didn’t serve Chosen Prince so much as their goals were aligned. The Condemned wanted to kill and inflict pain. And who better to serve their cause than a madman hellbent on world domination?
Had Augustus met Praetorian earlier, back in time when he was a child, he might’ve saved that broken soul. But not anymore. No matter how cruel and unjust the world may be, everyone chooses their own path. Praetorian has chosen to live as a rabid animal, and as a rabid animal he will die. Once he runs out of ammunition, his fate will be sealed.
They paced back and forth, their weapons a blur in the air, even Augustus’ enhanced vision struggling to pick up the slashes that made the air itself scream. Rho relied on instinct and skill, anticipating the trajectory of the enemy’s weapon, and in a way, Praetorian did the same. Augustus struck up with both sabers, countering the overhead swing and sending the arm and the weapon back. His sabers moved faster than the eye could follow for Praetorian’s neck, and his opponent slammed the haft of his weapon down, ramming the knob of his axe into Augustus. The explorator let the impact send him spinning to dodge the bullets and sliced at Praetorian’s leading leg again.
A burst of voices broke Augustus’ concentration, and his HUD came to life, receiving icons of his students. Rowen, Elina, Eliza, and Jumail were alive and safe. Thank goodness. And three of those troublemakers were atop the Ascension Tower! Why are they there? Augustus ducked under a horizontal slash from his opponent, and the axe was buried in a tower to his left. People are alive... Augustus processed the information, came to an understanding of why the mission had to be changed, and slashed with both sabers, drawing sparks from the enemy’s vambraces and leaving deep gashes. Not two Iternian lives. Several.
The instructor experienced a desire to howl in frustration after he understood with whom his students were talking so blazingly. Why did he have to be the one to be patched through? This mission was supposed to be a simple in and out, no one had to know of their presence. He calmed himself and focused on the task at hand, praising the tactical acumen of his students. It might cause an embarrassing diplomatic incident, but at the expense of Iterna’s enemies and to the benefit of his people. A sound decision. Now to keep them all alive. He has to end the fight soon and go to the group’s aid.
Praetorian advanced, his axe weaving eights in the air. Left, right, groin, head, the Condemned wielded his weapon with true skill, unleashing a never-ending barrage of blows and slashes at his opponent, seeking to open up Augustus and maim or cut him down. For all his berserker rage, Praetorian wasn’t tricked by any feints. Augustus resorted to deep defense, slashing once at the exposed neck, and Praetorian blocked the blow with his pistol. The blade split the weapon in two, and the Condemned seized the axe with both hands.
Missiles speared through the sky behind him and came down at the bastion. Some were knocked down by the thick anti-air fire, but most landed, creating thundering explosions that could be felt all the way here. Mushrooms of flame rose up, melting the stone, and in the wake of their cataclysmic eruption, a new sound broke the night. Jetpack engines and the sound of roaring helicopters. The Vanguard Strike Group of the Northern Army, the cream of the crop, was coming in full force, abandoning the original cautious approach. And in response to their advance, new explosions began to tear the city apart. Supply silos, warehouses, the armory, and even a section of the Factory thundered and came apart in a torrent of flame and steel.
“Enemies are ahead and behind the front lines, and your forces are squeezed between them,” Augustus hissed, parrying the incoming blow with his sabers. The two men were locked in a struggle, facing each other on the ruined tank. “You failed to spot someone right inside the town. Say farewell to your sacred tower.”
He expected to sense panic in Praetorian, to make the man act in anger or desperation. Praetorian only grunted and pushed his weapon harder.
“Good thing I decided to trust Hustler then,” Praetorian said, and Augustus’ pupils dilated.
“Infiltration team, beware…” His roar ended in a groan.
Praetorian kneed Augustus in the gut, the force of the blow shattering the armor and reaching deep into his body. An organ, a rudimentary fourth lung, ruptured, and Augustus tasted blood on his lips. The pain knocked him off balance, and Praetorian rammed his shoulder into him.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Praetorian grunted and swung his axe, bringing its blade onto the explorator’s shoulder in a cruel, blinding arc. He dragged the weapon across the enemy’s body, opening the armor at the left waist in an ugly, lacerated rift of broken biomaterial and flesh.