2: THE NEW PLAN
The first time Caly saw a Spirine—one of those gargantuan, twisting towers that sprouted up from the desert like the black skeleton of some ancient tree—she felt what everyone felt: that needling, dreadful sense of her own insignificance. After a million years, here yet stood a relic of the greatest xenos to ever exist. How could I possibly matter?
But, lately, the sight of the Spirine’s black, glittering branches soaring high over the foothills yielded a rush of relief. It always meant she was close to civilization—or as close as one could get on this parched, frigid, backwater.
The city of Old Ocotiyo surrounded one such Spirine, with all those shanties and prefabs, cabins and cottages arrayed in a ring around the structure. The town was named after both the spindly, desert cacti that grew around the local hills and cliffsides, and after the Spirine itself, which looked like an overgrown ocotiyo, a bunch of stems at the base, rising to the sky like some titanic black bouquet of thorns. Curtains of red desert moss clung to the polished tips of the stems, and waved in the breeze like tattered, red flags.
The Spirine cast shadows over a third of the city at any hour of the day, and while the structure itself was a crucial source of energy for Ocotiyo, no right-thinking xeno ever went anywhere near the Spirine—and not just because it was bad luck to trespass in a graveyard. Like they said, if you go around rooting in the Dead Ones’ stuff, don’t be surprised if something reaches back (of course, that didn’t stop your average local from siphoning power off the Spirine, just with the longest wires money could buy).
So, the only reason Caly was free-climbing the Spirine a hundred meters above the town of Old Ocotiyo was because of her helmet. Courans were special that way—they alone had the tech to block out whatever horrible, forgotten curse the Dys left rotting in all their ruins. Well, Courans, and the Worshipers, but who cared about those decrepit old shits?
Caly considered herself an expert when it came to climbing the twisting stems and unnatural “bark” of the Spirines, given that she’d been doing it the last six months. Every Spirine was different, but the lower thorns of this one made for a natural vantage point, and since nobody ever—ever—came up here, that meant she could set up in peace.
When she got up there, that was. Meanwhile, Caly hooked her fingers into a crack in the bark and grunted and strained as she pulled herself up. The toe-hooks on her boots clicked as she kicked at the impossibly smooth surface, gouging it slightly. Most people thought the Spirines were made of black steel alloy, but as far as Caly could tell, the metal was more alien than that. It had withstood eons of desert wind, and sometimes, she thought it was practically alive. Already, the gouges she’d made further down were starting to seal themselves up.
Her rifle knocked against her back, and her satchel swung dangerously every time she drove a hook into the Spirine. She was on the curving cusp of a thorn, when the wind took her satchel wide, and her foot slipped. Caly rammed her hook into the bark and squeezed her body against the structure as her legs flailed over the drop. With a completely undignified groan, she hoisted herself up the edge and collapsed on the smooth, black surface, gasping for breath. Her suit vented open at the neck and the top of her head, letting in some of New Nowhere’s cold, afternoon air to chill her sweat. What would they think of me, if they could see me now? Just the thought of her sisters, curling their lips in disgust at her present state, sent a bitter jolt through her system. Who cares what they think?
Caly sat up, and got to work.
She unbelted her satchel, letting it slide to the surface of the thorn, and started cleaning her rifle. On the horizon, a small storm gathered over the eastern cliffs. She couldn’t tell yet if it was coming or going, or just passing by. Below the balcony railing, she could make out the mess of Old Ocotiyo, all those buildings like clods of dirt that fell in a ring around the Spirine.
Old Ocotiyo was said to be the oldest city on the whole planet. Some said it dated back to the Treaty of the Crowns, but Caly had her doubts: most of the buildings were clay and scrap, canvas and fabricated wood—it wasn’t like they’d been around for more than a handful of centuries. Not exactly the ancient castles and monuments of her home world. If the city really was so proud and venerable, shouldn’t it have some landmark more famous than, you know, the local brothel?
There were rows of houses in various states of disrepair (though a few showed patches of brown plant life) laid out in the vague suggestion of concentric circles. Hotels with fresh coats of paint, already blistering over the last coat. General stores and dry goods, and alleys crammed with old debris and haphazard shacks piled against each other. A government building or two, bright white and shiny just like Synod regulation demanded, but sand stained them all, fresh paint or not. Like most of the towns on New Nowhere, Old Ocotiyo was dry, dusty, and bristling with life: xenos of all kinds bustling or begging in the streets. Constructs, and the odd pack animal, made columns of dirt as they hauled wagons down the broad avenues that ringed the Spirine. A crowd of onlookers gathered around the shooting pitch that doubled as an arena. That’s where Olm was, right now. Waiting on her.
An announcer shrieked with exaggerated excitement, though the winds only delivered snatches of his warbling, tinny voice. Still, the sound cut at her nerves. Used to be, Caly didn’t hate this part. Used to be a flutter in her stomach, excited to make money her way. But now, that flutter felt more like a scratching, like something was in her belly, and worrying to get out. It had been getting stronger these last couple of tournaments.
If anything happened, she could scramble her way out long before the dogs of consequence came biting at her heels, but it wasn’t her own skin she was nervous for.
A roar from the crowd made Caly’s stomach drop. It’s time. She checked the bore of her rifle once more, before loading a fresh magazine (she didn’t use energy rounds—too easy to spot from below). She shouldered her rifle, and the scope’s sensor filled her visor with the image of a giant, a hrutskuld, walking out of the gate, rolling his shoulders, stretching his neck left and right, and squaring his feet on the sand. Olm. Proud, and tall in all his craggy majesty. It was a good thing his chest plate was so rusted, or else the reflection of the sun might’ve blinded Caly.
Hrutskuld were a species known for their brutality and bloodlust, even out here at the ass-end of the Synod (ass-end might’ve been too generous a term. Everyone needs their ass. Nobody needed New Nowhere). But just the sight of a hrutskuld whipped the crowd into a ravenous fury. Today, they were thinking, we’ll get our money’s worth. Today, there will be blood.
The wind picked up the announcer’s voice, carrying it clear as sunshine to Caly’s perch, “—a legendary warrior who bathes in the blood of his enemies—and sometimes his friends! Beware the monstrous hrutskuld!”
Caly’s internal speakers buzzed. That would be Olm, giving a defeated sigh. “Ugh.”
“Wish they wouldn’t talk like that about you,” she whispered.
“Be glad they do,” He grumbled back over her earpiece. “The reputation got us in here.”
“It brings down our billing. When they talk like that, of course they’re going to bet on you.”
“Good thing we’re trying out your new plan, then.”
The two of them, Caly and Olm, hopped from town to town for half of a year, running their guns in the local tournaments, in an effort to climb on top of their debt. Of her debt. She couldn’t even blame Zyroc, because she had sworn up and down that she’d make the delivery.
And, to be fair, when it all went to pieces (like it always did for her), Zyroc had been lenient on the both of them. But still.
They were in the hole, and the thing with holes is the deeper you go, the narrower your point of view becomes, until all you can think about is that tiny circle of light way up at the top, and how you’re going to get back there. Back to square one and dollar zero.
Right now, Caly’s vision was narrowed through the scope, watching Olm as his huge hands grappled with the gear on his chest plate.
“Armor acting up again?”
“Sand,” his voice rumbled over her earpiece. “But I think I can get it.”
“We’ll clean it out after this match. How’s the Hammer?”
Underneath the breastplate, twin bandoliers crossed his chest, holstering six pistols down his front. Those were mostly for show. The weapon she cared about the most was that cage of wires and metal joints that enclosed his left arm. He did something with his fist—like he was pulling his arm back for a punch—and strings of electricity snapped through the cage.
“Good,” she said. Caly pulled the scope back and scanned the rest of the arena. The bleachers were full, and there were more people crowded underneath, and the fences leaned as people shoved closer, hoping to get a free view. Dust whipped at their hats and cloaks and shawls. New Nowhere’s finest folk—the landed, the laborers, the stranded tourists and exiles, a few not-so-ex-convicts, and some Synod enforcers unlucky enough to get stationed out here. That storm on the cliffs was looking a little larger now, less of a brown smudge and more like a dust-colored thunderhead. If it came this way, it would blast them with sand that, at the best of times, was brutal on both skin and scale. Still no lightning, though.
“Wind’s kicking up,” Caly said over her earpiece. “Keep your back to it.”
He didn’t answer, and she didn’t want him to. The less he talked to her, the better their chances of pulling this off, nice and clean. Caly didn’t feel bad about stealing from the Mayor. Enri was a cheat, and a thug, just about as bad as any of the other Mayors of New Nowhere. As for the slobbering, crowded masses? They were probably worse. Not a set of manners among the lot of them, and the last six months had taught her to loathe the lesser species for a whole new slew of reasons.
Below, the gate gave a rusty groan and chains clattered as it was cranked open, while the announcer’s voice echoed and bounced madly around the stadium. “—the one, the only—Split Agasgar!”
What kind of name is that?
Judging by the roar from the seats, Split was a crowd favorite. A bipedal xeno sauntered out into the sunlight, the tails of his duster whipping in the wind. He was tall and skinny as a desert palm, with glossy, green skin, and two glittering orbs that bulged out of the top of his head. The sunlight made it hard to tell if they were organic eyes, or some external implant. Either way, hideous.
She trained her scope on the xeno called Split Agasgar, and the on-screen identification flipped through a few different species, without selecting one. He had a sly walk, like he was in no hurry to start the match, and his hands were hidden in the dark canvas of his duster where odd bulges hid some secret weapon. Explosives? No, too large. Then what?
“Can’t get a read on this one,” Caly whispered into her helmet. “Not a kekton. Not pellucid either, though he does look a little buggy to me.”
“Peltic, maybe?” Olm asked.
“That would explain the coat. Might be he has extra limbs under there.”
Instead of squaring off against Olm, the Pelt (or whatever species that thing was) sauntered around the edge of the arena, gave an elegant bow, and pulled three white roses out of his duster, which the xeno tossed up to three swooning idiots up in the bleachers.
“Bugman!” Olm slammed a fist on his chest plate, and roared at the Pelt, “I didn’t come here to dance.” Olm’s Hammer hand was down at his side, but Caly saw the way his fingers flexed. Go easy, she thought. They weren’t here to kill—a kill would cut into their payout. A mistake they couldn’t afford.
“Reckon you’re ready to lose?” Olm shouted across the sand.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
The alien twisted his head, as if Split Agasgar had only just noticed Olm. Those eyes on top of his skinny head caught the sunlight, and two branch-like arms unfolded from his neck and casually brushed the dust from his eyeballs, as if Split had all the time in the world. Then, the Pelt moved so fast, Caly almost missed it: a clawed hand slipped out of his coat, brandishing a machine pistol, and he sprayed Olm with a hail of bullets.
Caly sucked in her breath.
Olm cranked the gear on his chest, activating the plate armor. Retractable plates shot out of the chest piece, snapping to the rings on his arms and legs, creating a stiff, rusted armor that shielded his front … and only his front. Bullets pinged harmlessly away. Caly snorted, partially from relief, but partially because he looked ridiculous in that get up. Like a metal, hrutskuld scarecrow standing over his wheat.
The announcer was screaming so loud, she could feel the bass vibrations all the way up here, almost muting the cheering of the crowd as they clamored at the top of their lungs or gills or air filters, or whatever they vocalized with. The bug-eyed Pelt started to circle Olm with measured, almost dainty boot steps, his alien head remaining uncannily still as he tracked Olm who shuffled and swung his feet, so his armored side faced the Pelt.
Olm pulled his left arm back. The cage that ran from elbow to fingertips crackled as unbridled forks of electricity leaped from his hand and licked out at the ribs of his armor. She could almost see Olm grinning behind that metal mask. He loved this part. Craved the danger.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it?
The Pelt unfurled another arm from his duster, and unloaded another machine pistol at Olm. Different ammunition. Small, armor-piercing bullets sang a rattling song, they dug into Olm’s armor. Caly’s gut clenched. A few months ago, she wouldn’t have thought twice, but now all she could think about was what if one finds a crack in his armor? What if he shoots Olm in the eye?
She would never forgive herself.
Caly sighted her rifle on the Pelt, but before she could curl her trigger finger, Olm crackled over her earpiece, “This bug’s mine.”
One moment, the Pelt was traipsing around the edge of the arena, flourishing his pistols in between sprays of bullets, and the next there was a column of white lightning that started at the tip of Olm’s fist, and collided with the other end of the arena. The Pelt was lost somewhere in the middle.
The lightning flickered out, leaving a black stain on the arena wall and a crumpled duster halfway across the sand. The crowd roared with pleasure. Olm, however, let out a frustrated growl. “Damn. Might’ve killed him.”
The crowds were here for bloodshed, but Mayor Enri demanded order. Thus, by local decree, a death in the arena would cost them 95% of their winnings.
“Wait—” Olm said.
The charred, crumpled duster moved. Six legs sprouted out. Then, more. Caly lost count of the long, waving, distressingly-jointed limbs climbing out from the duster. Caly discovered three things in rapid succession:
One, Split Agasgar was not a Pelt.
Two, Split Agasgar was not one xeno, but several.
And three, tournament rules allowed for one competitor on each side … which means those bug-eyed bastards are cheating. The fact that she was sitting high over the arena, ready to snipe on Olm’s behalf, did nothing to diminish her outrage.
There were three long-limbed bugs stutter-dancing around the arena, each one wielding two machine pistols. Bullets rattled and jigged on Olm’s armor, making him grunt and stumble back as he tried to keep the three Splits from surrounding him.
That’s when Caly decided it wasn’t worth it. Zyroc could wait. The Cavaliers could wait.
Olm needed her.
“Forget the money!” she said, “Kill them.”
“I can do this,” Olm grunted back through gritted teeth. “We’re so close.”
“Olm, we’ll take another tournament.”
“Zyroc said this week, or nothing.”
One of the bug-eyed cheaters had stopped firing and was sprinting in a line behind Olm while the other two suppressed his movement with a hail of bullets.
“We can get the money somewhere else. Some other way—”
Mid-sentence, she squeezed the trigger and her rifle kicked, as familiar as a lover’s embrace. She leaned into it, so she wouldn’t lose sight of her target. A spit of sand plumed on the arena floor. The bug behind Olm tripped, and planted face first, limbs flailing. Its head might be skinny, but those glittering, bulbous eyes looked ripe as cherries. She couldn’t ask for an easier target.
“Caly,” Olm growled at her. “Trust me.”
Caly’s finger hovered over the trigger.
Olm sidestepped over to the bug lying on the ground, his Hammer crackling with energy. He held his caged fist above the bug-thing’s head—the crowd’s screams rose to a climax—and he loosed just enough voltage to flick the bug right in the heart, knocking this one unconscious. The crowd’s disappointment was audible. Where’s the blood? We paid for blood!
“One down, two to go.” Olm uttered. But the two remaining Split Agasgars (or was it Splits Agasgar?) had him in a pincer. One fired at his front while the other sprinted in a wide circle, twin pistols ready to unload at Olm’s exposed backside—
Caly’s rifle bucked. The bug-thing’s pistol exploded in his hands. Bucked again, and so did the other pistol. It kept running, but it stared at its hands like it couldn’t comprehend where the guns had gone.
From there, it was just a matter of Olm cleaning up. The bugs’ dainty, measured dance became a frenzied run as Olm lifted his Hammer, and swatted them both with two quick bursts of electricity. Even in broad daylight, the flickering light was almost blinding.
Olm, victorious, lifted his hands. The crowd’s half-hearted cheers and obnoxious jeers distracted him. At the center of the arena, the forgotten duster flapped open and one last bug made a mad, insect dash, kicked up sand as it ran buzzing and frothing, and opened fire on Olm. Olm started to turn. His armor locked up, and his knee wouldn’t bend. He tried to spin on his heel. The bug was faster. Caly’s bullet was fastest of all. The bug jerked forward, and collapsed on its back, limbs twitching in the air. Dead for real, this time.
“95%,” Olm sighed.
“Maybe they’ll only cut out a quarter, since he was one of four?” She knew it wasn’t true. The betting house would take their cut now.
Olm’s voice rumbled in her ear, “Thanks, Caly.” And she could hear, despite all of it, despite all they had talked about and planned and agreed upon, despite her breaking the deal, Olm really meant it. Maybe Olm would’ve nailed that last one, but not before the bug nailed him.
Olm stood over the body of the bug, and nudged it with a foot. “Huh. It’s a moscalo. Pelts’ little cousins. Guess we weren’t too far off.”
“You might want to pop him,” she said. “So they don’t find my bullet in his skull.”
Olm grunted his agreement. He twisted the gear on his chest, and his armor retracted with a rattling clank, freeing his limbs. Olm pulled out one of his pistols, aimed it at the already dead bug’s head. And snapped a shot. The bug’s head exploded, and two cherry-shaped eyes squelched to the sand.
The crowd roared with satisfaction. Gibbering idiots.
***
The dull hubbub of the crowds filtered into the dusty air of the prep room. It smelled like sweat and piss in here. Who the void relieves themselves in the prep room? Caly wondered. Animals.
Olm stood still as a statue, his arms out, waiting patiently for Caly to finish tinkering with his armor. She barely had to crouch to work on the gears.
“Don’t sweat it about the dead bug,” Olm said, trying not to move while Caly hammered at the joints and blew air through the center crank. “I’ll talk to the bursar. Make them see reason.”
“Sure.” She grunted as she put all her weight on the wrench, straining to shove the last bolt back into place. After the initial resistance, it twisted smoothly on. “There. It’s clean.”
“One more fight, Cal,” Olm said, testing his movement. All his limbs slid smoothly, and none of the pistons locked up, and the cranks clicked with satisfying precision. “Reckon it’s all going to work out this time.”
“Yeah,” she said, not bothering to feign enthusiasm.
“Yeah?” Olm frowned down at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She sighed, and sat back on her knees, craning her helmet up to look at Olm in his pale eyes. And sighed again. “I don’t know. You’re the one taking all the hits. And I’m up there—”
“I volunteered. Or don’t you remember?”
“I should be strong enough to stand on my own. I should be the one taking risks. When I’m in the Cavs—”
“What? You’re going to fly off without me?”
“No, I—”
“Do you think all this is going to stop, just because you get in?”
“No, I—”
“Then the problem, as far as I see it, is you’re getting distracted. This is the easy part, Caly. When you’re a Cavalier, the universe doesn’t bow before you. People know your name. But down here, you have to do everything you can to claw your way up.”
“Cheating and thieving and dragging our asses across the planet. Yeah, that’s real noble. Real becoming of a Cavalier.”
“You’d be surprised,” Olm muttered.
“I should be good enough to get in on my own skill. I’m a couran, for Crown’s sake. I’m not some backwater nothing like one of these pelts or pellucids or— ”
“Or hrutskuld?”
Caly snapped her head up, worrying she had wounded her friend. But Olm was smiling down at her, like he couldn’t imagine any place he’d rather be. “We’re partners, Calyciana. Your loss is my loss. My gain is yours. We’re better at this together.”
Caly knew he was right, but that didn’t stop her from clenching her fists. Her visor started to fog, and the neck of her suit vented open, the little fans whirring like mad to circulate the air. If I’m not good enough to get in on my own, then do I really deserve to join the Cavs?
“Relax,” he said, squeezing her shoulder with one giant hand, as warm as a sun-baked stone. Heavy, but oddly comforting at the same time. “This was your plan. And, by the stars, it’s working. Just one more fight, and we’ll take that prize money to Zyroc, and you’ll get what you need. You just need to—”
“I know,” she said. “Focus.”
She could see her own reflection in his huge, pale eyes. The outline of her helmet. The nodules, where her horns should’ve been.
“One more, okay? Tomorrow’s burden will wait for tomorrow’s strength.”
Caly nodded. The condensation on her visor started to recede.
“What am I fighting next, any way?” Olm asked.
“Uh.”
“What?”
“A ‘human.’”
“A what?”
“Yeah,” Caly said, showing him the card. “I’ve never heard of it either. I’m pretty sure that’s not a real species.”
“Hm. Looks couranoid to me. Kinda like you without the horns,” he pointed up to his own forehead with one stony finger. And then, he remembered himself and cleared his throat awkwardly. “I mean. Looks small for a xeno. I’ll have to drop my voltage.”
“Small can be deadly.”
Olm stretched, the metal joints of his armor whispering as he pulled his arms wide. “Tonight, I’m buying. Heard the rosaritas were damn fine a few streets over.” He smacked his lips, “I can already taste the—”
“I hate this!” Her frustration burst out of her like a flock of birds after gunshot. “You're talking like we've already won. And you’re the one who has to go up there, and I hate that we have to do this at all. It’s my fault about the Bitter King, and now we’re in deep with Zyroc of all people. Fucking Zyroc. And what if this human is dangerous? What if he’s better than you think he is?”
As patient a mountain, he let her finish. Let all the words air out, until her frustration was nothing but a heaving breath and clenched fists. Hrutskuld. Caly had learned about hrutskulds, and none of the lessons ever taught her they could be like this. He never gave her anything to yell at, so that her anger always deflected back on herself. She growled out a strangle cry of frustration.
Olm just waited.
“What?” she demanded.
“You know how many wars I’ve fought in?”
Caly blinked. Her eyes automatically wandered down the trunks of his arms. His sleeveless shirt showed the whole story—huge, boulder-shaped muscles bulging under hard, almost rocky skin. Hundreds of white marks outlined all the near misses and near deaths, wounds that would’ve put a lesser being in the mind of never fighting again. One particularly nasty mark left a gash the color of chalk in a perfect ring around his shoulder.
“How many wars, Caly?”
“A couple,” she said, begrudgingly. Almost childish.
“A couple,” he snorted. “You know, in all my time fighting across the Synod, I never heard of no human. And if no one's ever heard of them, how good could he really be?”
“He could be crazy,” she said.
Olm casually slid one arm into the plate’s sleeve, perfectly eclipsing that white scar on his shoulder. “Who on this world isn’t?”
Caly looked down at the floor. A spiral of emotions intersected her swirling thoughts, making it hard to think straight. She couldn’t get one thought out of her head: we need a better plan. Not just for today. When I get in, we’ll take a whole new direction.
“Focus,” Olm said.
Caly nodded. Blew out a breath. And let her fists unclench. It would do no good for either of them if her thoughts were more scattered than sand in the wind. Today’s burden. Today’s strength.
Olm was testing his Hammer again, clicking it on and off, and adjusting the amplitude of the hand-wrapped cannon.
“One last question,” Caly said. “If you’re buying tonight… can we get sugar lemons, too?”
A smile split his face and he playfully rapped his knuckle against her helmet. “Lemons as big and ripe as your shiny dome.”