The thing about falling from 40,000 feet is that you die. Not from the fall, I’m confident this won’t even break my legs, but from what’s waiting for you when you reach the ground. Naturally I’m implying there are things in this world worse than being heaved off a dropship moments before your mech-suit can wake you from a medically induced coma. Like for example seeing black dots and a barren landscape for kilometers in all directions-

Two tons of metal should never be allowed to free fall to the Earth without a solid plan. Fortunately for me the army of man has progressed enough that drops from 40,000 plus feet has become routine. Mostly as an adaptation to our enemies ability to track our Michaels to landing zones, and then later the ability to harass parachuting troops; which is embarrassing enough to admit of course, seeing as their savages barely entering the industrial revolution. None-the-less, the need for a new drop method inspired the development of a special shock absorbing gel that accounts for the majority of the Samson armors bulk and about ten percent of the volume of the Goliath armor.

Of course, I think about landing jelly, it’s better than-

The concept is simple, if not far-fetched. The jell absorbs the energy of the fall. That energy moves rapidly through the armor generating heat as it travels up. The rapid change in temperature triggers a state change from semi-liquid to super-heated gas, which for a Samson is diffused as an explosion of steam and convenient cover, but on a Goliath that same gas gets vented through turbines as additional fuel.

Or that’s how it’s supposed to work. The alternative is just crashing at 9.8 meters per second. Nope its way better to think about how that fall works, how-

After the venting process with the refillable landing jell is completed, the remaining shock travels through the numerous layers of fiber muscle; several layers upon layers of wire that mimic actual muscles and allow the DAVID inside to move the Goliath with his own movements, and also insolates the DAVID from the outside trauma. Ideally even my own movements, if I survive the fall, can regenerate the Goliaths reserve battery through that same muscle fibers that translate anything to power. But even those systems by themselves won’t help the DAVID inside. No, the final system targets the flesh that has to endure what remains of the immense shock. When the landing jelly is triggered, the natural spike in adrenaline to cope with the pain is aided by the Goliath Armor first injection of the superman serum. Derived from a Samson’s own adrenaline glands, N.O.A.H scientists found out that the chemicals and hormones inside a Samson, is several times more potent than anything similar produced in a lab. The serums main effects are increased strength and improved reflexes, along with pain resistance and improved fight or flight response. Landing would simply jar the brain too much without this simple drug.

I should be panicking, its surreal being so close to what accounts to a normal man’s death. To see the green landscapes and blue reflective sky, narrow down to brown and black dots, now hills, that could be mistaken as natural geography but I know-

How do you project the will of man, what is holy and just, upon the unholy and the abominable? With a big gun? Easy answer but ultimately wrong. Big guns either require really big men or big platforms. In which case guess which one is cheaper than the other? Simple question? If genetic engineering matched the expansion of weapon research; as in on a perfect parallel course, then warfare greatly influenced by man’s ego would look much different. We may have never invented firearms. But thank the ignorance of man that we invented the hydrogen bomb long before we invented computers capable of mapping the genetic code of millions of species-

I can’t keep distracting myself! I need to right myself, so I can land feet first, anything else- Oh GOD I need to get ready, grab my weapon, and brace myself! No, relax! No, brace! No-

But this isn’t a course on “Why we have Samsons”, but an explanation for the Goliath in the age of large guns capable of piercing, roasting, and flaying. It must be considered with great gravity that the best of mankind is being sent to do battle and is expect to return home all the same. We engineer the defense of these assets with the utmost resources made feasible; assuring ourselves that the lives of one David is worth many times the combined martial prowess of a full battalion of Samsons. We do this with mechanized armor and the best drugs man can find.

Oh yes, I refuse to think about it! I refuse to consider why those black hills seem to move like some large boneless creature! Almost scuttling in a way, into and around itself. I know what they mean. They represent the swarm. And I don’t have time to shudder-

Ka-BOOM

The ground splits, my legs turn to liquid, and the world becomes a brown and yellow haze. The headache follows next as the teeth rattle out of gums; the armor is pelted with newly displaced rocks and the air smells of sulfur and methane. I heave in one breath, thanking God that the air is filtered as the super-heated landing gel releases itself in a burst of vented steam. Not disoriented, not hurt, I lift my leg gingerly; can still walk!

And that’s when I finally look down. Buried under the dirt is a black carapace that is cracked in line with the placement of my armored feet. Wherever the cracks show, a mixture of brown, yellow and white goo seep slowly, revealing the color of its blood and the remnants of its organs liquefied.

Scattered all around are the remains of the creature that once occupied the same space as where I stand. It being a swarmling; obscenity given form, all legs and a mouth. I feel more than see or hear the movement all around.

“KREEEEEEEEEEEEEACCCCCCCCCCTCH”

I turn to face it.

“KREEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAACHTCH”

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

My Industrial Incinerator lets out a jet stream of napalm at the seven o’clock position as I turn. I’m alone in the crater, more screeches, more scuttling, the dust hasn’t cleared, and then-

“CRRRRRRRRRREAAAAAAAATTCCCCCCCCCCCCCKTCK”

And the smoke parts before the bullet of armored flesh, otherworldly fast for a hundred pound insect. It doesn’t bother to dart out of the way as I swing the II to check its advance. It doesn’t know fear, nor does it have any concept of prey and predator. No in its mind there is only “full” and “starving”, which makes it the purest binary machine in nature. Oh, and it explodes when set on fire. Ignoring the heat or any thought of self-preservation; it pushes past the stream before exploding.

Taking a step back I admire my second kill before I’m hit hard from behind. Stumbling, I regain my balance before being hit again from the opposite side. Unable to down me they shake off the daze before resuming the attack. I take note of how few of them come to attack me. A relief but not reassuring; the stench of a fresh corpse will attract more of them but only the curious, the wanders, are paying me any attention. For now anyway; eventually the mounds will displace themselves as millions start to inquire about the funny smelling tin can and when that happens the Goliath armor won’t hold against a million sets of claws and teeth.

I avoid the attack of one as it rears up on four legs.

“Cockroaches don’t do that.” A swarmling is for all intent and purposes a seven-foot-tall cockroach (females are nine to ten feet tall with egg sack included) with eight to ten legs and four mandibles. The first set of legs are its claws; short, hard and sharp, they can dent steel and are ideal for rending flesh as quickly as possible with as many strokes that are necessary. Its other legs are generalized except its back legs that are capable of holding its weight and sturdier than the other pairs which can alternate between fast travel and tearing into flesh with its jagged edges.

Unlike other insects worthy of extermination the swarmlings are thankfully not self-aware, unfortunately their weaknesses end there. The Swarm numbers in the billions, possible trillions, worldwide. Those black hills I mentioned earlier are their homes. The “mounds” are not constructs, but thousands of swarmlings eating and mating in one spot. Each mound contains over one million swarmlings. I was dropped into a nest containing dozens of mounds.

Three more explode, five more explode and then a dozen screech and roast before my II. The curiosity phase is rapidly ending, the shadow of one mound disappears, and the smoke gives away to a black tide that approaches from all sides.

“Say hello to the reaper man”

And I charge forward, guns literally blazing as the Industrial Incinerator becomes a dragon consuming swarmlings by the dozen. But it’s not enough, they come crashing in, biting at my shoulder, the helm! Ripping away cape and trying to rip apart my metal arms and legs. One swarmling tugs me by my left ankle joint with such ferocity that I smashed my head against the carapace of an adult swarmling; cracking it in the process of my stumble.

My II was on full automatic as I blindly shot in any direction with one hand while my left smashes into heads, claws, and anything in-between. I was drenched in brown blood and as each explosion drenched me more and more in swarmling bodily fluids.

Then the napalm cartridge ejects without warning, at the worst possible time. I jam the trigger in a desperate plea to save my soul before finally realizing the Incinerator has gone silent. I reach for another cartridge but the lack of an attacking hand gets taken advantage of in an instant knocking me again flat.

Within seconds I’m twisting and turning within the mass of bugs and all I hear is the thump and clank of claws and teeth attempting to dig their way inside my armor to get to the sweet flesh inside! Soon my world stops making sense as the air becomes too thin to breathe. The projection I rely on become a smeary haze of blacks and browns, whites and yellows! And it makes no sense! Below me is the swarm, above me is the swarm, and when I look ahead I see the ever moving machinery of a swarmlings underside moving tirelessly in the darkness. Nauseating! The stomach churns away a response that I barely bit back.

On all sides is a moving wall of armor and carapace too thick for me to move. The slip and drip of blood, feces, and the insides of their stomachs become a steady rain. And god help me I can’t move even as the Goliath servos whine in protest!

” Can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t think…”and something punches into my armor. In shear panic, I force my fist through armored flesh and out through the underside, and use the weight of space forged steel to saw my way down until I reach the handle of a side-arm I didn’t remember having! And with one swift stroke I hear the “Creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaakkkccccccccccccck” of a dozen bugs bucking a blade in agony.

A space opens for a second, so with an empty flamethrower in my right hand and blade in my left hand I push and slash to proper footing but not escape. The swarm has made a mound on top of me; an orgy of blood and mating is all around me, but the lack of air will get me killed first as my filter is taxed beyond usability. So I slash widely and haphazardly at the world around me; dispersing my anger into this fleshy black space devoid of light and air. I find space to move my right hand properly and hook my Industrial Incinerator before the chance is lost. The space closes, within moments, but with my newly free right hand I strike out blindly and grab onto what I assume is something’s mouth as I hear the clicks of thousands of rows of teeth grinding at my gauntlet.

And pull. And push. And pull. And Push. Forward! I move my sword with purpose as the blade cracks through armor and carapace like chewing through tender meat. Forward, with the barely conscious swarmling as my shield, his brain bashed into a dozen times and his second or third one only capable of making his claws and legs fight me out of muscle memory. The head finally comes off as I crunch the flailing body as I press forward. No, I charge, using a cross guard I bull rush through the mound; using my two-ton body to make the wall of armored flesh yield to my will.

But is it good enough? The smell, the air, the weight of thousands, more like millions of swarmlings pressing my feet into the ground, slowly my step, slowing my breath, my consciousness…

“NO!” And I take another step but the momentum is gone and my armor is being assaulted on all sides. Not even a swing of my sword will clear this, it ends here.

“FUCK! THIS!” And then I lunge forward, god help me, and I break into fresh air at least. Coughing up blood and bile, I automatically switch my sword out for a napalm cartridge, plug it into my II and unleash on the new mound, killing thousands of swarmlings as the mound collapses in on itself and into the fire. The smell of that many dead swarmlings nearly takes me off my feet. It was that bad. I couldn’t breathe for a moment because the smell drafted right into me. Tears ran uncontrolled for the first time since I murdered Kevin in cold blood, and the skin on my cheek sizzled from the heat of them, of the tears made from being at the very least alive. Maybe alive for the first time in my life.

Then the sound of too many legs scuttling in too close, cleared my mind of all other thoughts but the one thing to remember about the Swarm-

“They’re always attracted to the smell of their dead Sir.”

“And why would that matter, don’t we kill them all anyway.”

“In war yes, in battle no.”