“Think of it logically,” says Anthem, as the 3rd squad gathers next to their assortment of weapons at the head of the range. “If it’s one, it can’t be bigger than, say… Mug Rot Alpha.” He stretches his arms out as if to encompass the entire structure.
“Why couldn’t it be?” asks Hamill.
Anthem frowns. “Where would they store it?”
“Right there, in the trees.” The boy gestures out beyond the ranges, towards the line of palms containing the leaves they outfitted their scarecrows with.
“The zoo man’s right,” says Orey, the platoon’s scout and a private in their squad. The red-haired man resembles a tame version of Frine, with a much calmer temperament. It’s not clear if it were thorn bushes or maligned claws that scarred his face. “You think a maligned of those sizes would wait in the trees?”
“The Minds can tell them to do anything,” Hamill urges.
Anthem cringes at the possibility. Minds are maligned and can direct the creatures’ movements in proximity, whether within a few meters or hundreds of kilometers. They are likely why the maligned haven’t hit the RLZ yet.
“But I don’t think they’d wait,” Hamill continues. “They’d be chained up, tied down in some secret caged safari over there.”
“We would notice it,” says Anthem.
“Would you? Who has been out there?” Hamill turns to Orey. “Have you?”
The scout shakes his head.
“Alright, and then what?” asks Unwin. “Fletcher would ride in on the maligned like a horse?”
Hamill shakes his head. “Maybe not as big as Mug Rot Alpha, but what about the opposite? Small things the size of our hands? Smaller? How do you think Fletcher could hide those without arousing some commotion? We would know.”
That is true as well. The men would have noticed hundreds of maligned stored in bags or small cages, for it would take that many to make a suitable challenge. With eight squads under Fletcher’s command, the idea of holding a hundred maligned each drifts further and further away.
“What about something in between, then?” asks Anthem. “Borer pups? They’re the size of dogs. There could be maybe ten per squad?” He dwells further, searches the yards, and finds two cube-shaped buildings on either side of the range, each with their windows boarded over. “How long have those been covered?”
“The ammunition stores?” asks Nedland, looking over. “You haven’t noticed?”
“It’s not that,” Anthem says, “but has there always been so many men surrounding it?”
The 3rd squad does a double take, seeing at least three lieutenants crowding around the structure, lazing as if on break, passing rolls of sizzling jungle plants between them and inhaling the resulting vapor. Anthem has always thought the habit is disgusting.
“We don’t need so much speculation,” says Unwin. “We get a forward line of pikemen, maybe half of us, and put the rest on musket duty.”
“Not so simple,” Nedland retorts. “What if we’re dealing with things that can fly? In that case, You’ll want more muskets to shoot them down. And what if they’re beasts that can charge at us? Then we’ll need most of us herding them with pikes, not just half.”
“So, a mix?”
Anthem shakes his head at the same time as Nedland. Orey notices the two and pulls Anthem over while the other men discuss. He leans in and whispers, “Fancy you could go over there and check?”
Anthem frowns. “Why me? You’re the scout.”
“I’m the scout, so they’ll expect me.” Orey taps his fingers on Anthem’s back. “If you mosey on over there, the LTs will think you’re lost. Before they send you back, you might get to peek inside. Just feign ignorance if they catch you.”
The plan holds a modicum of sense that Anthem can’t deny. “Know thy enemy,” he whispers.
Orey claps him on the back. “Right? I’ll go tell the sarge.”
Before Anthem can argue, Orey pushes him away. Fueled by curiosity, Anthem runs, then remembers to blend in, walking slowly and not necessarily towards the ammunition store but any building in that area. Men from the 1st and 4th squads glance up at him only for seconds, too focused on the task at hand, the chance to leave. The closer Anthem gets, the more he thinks this precaution is unnecessary and that he’d be better placed back with his team preparing for the exercise.
The ammunition shed is as large as a factory warehouse in Kaskit, with two floors and a hollow interior, he guesses. Its rear side is atop a cliff, facing a dried-up beach. The back side might have an entrance, so he skulks along it, looking down to appear he’s searching for something while checking for cracks, holes, or a way in.
Below the practice volleys and wind hammering the cliffside, voices murmur behind, but Anthem doesn’t hear them.
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He’s almost at the far end of the warehouse’s rear side when he notices a hole large enough to fit his head in. He kneels and peers inside.
There is nothing but darkness and a few tarps covering boxes. He makes out the silhouettes of weapon racks, ammunition cases, and lifeless crates cracked open or sealed. If anything produces a sound inside, Anthem can’t hear it over the pounding wind against the back of the warehouse wall, the crunch of a six-pound cannon far off, and the snapping of a twig right next to him.
He turns just as something covers his head. Three pairs of hands grip him, throw him to his feet, jerk his head, and hold his arms down. Laughing follows, then whatever is covering his head lifts to make way for two hands that pry his jaw open and push a gag into his mouth.
“What? Can’t fucking speak?” It’s Frine’s voice, the fucking meathead.
The gag holds. “Nnnhh!”
Six or seven hands grasp him. Something cold touches Anthem’s arm, and clasps tight. The men stuff what feels like leaves in the gaps between his skin and that hard material, which he now deems to be armor. They strap shoulder pads and a breastplate on him, and when Anthem tries to kick them away, two more hold him down and fit the rest of the outfit on.
They pull the bag off his head, and he gets a momentary glimpse of the drained ocean far off before someone covers his eyes again. They drop a helmet onto the shoulder pads and click into place. Something pinches Anthem's neck before the last bolt connects. Immediately, his body sags, his eyes feeling heavier.
“Almost feel sorry for him,” says one of Frine’s men. Or is that Hallisey?
“Fuck this clown,” says Frine before the last bolt clicks closed.
The helmet silences their voices. Anthem tries to open his mouth, but the gag is too tight. He tries to move his arms and legs, but they’re lifeless, not responding to his brain’s commands. Paralysis. His thoughts laze. Injected. Is that all?
Fucking meatheads.
He is carried to the rear entrance of the warehouse he’d been searching for. The darkness through the tiny slit in the helmet’s visor is the last thing he sees before they throw him into a corner, his body tumbling down like a discarded doll. Still paralyzed, still unable to speak, he sits sprawled out on the ground for a time before the warehouse doors open again, and a different set of hands pulls him out. They are gentler, not intent on fitting him inside an armored prison, but they must not recognize he is inside.
Sunlight bleeds through the slit. Whatever is covering it comes off when the men deposit him on the ground and position his arms like a lazy farmer stretching. Beyond, Anthem sees the railings of one of the range’s lookout towers. Atop it, Fletcher and the other lieutenants talk among themselves. After convening, Fletcher raises a yellow pinion that Anthem has come to know the meaning of during his months here: assume positions.
The exercise is starting, and he’s a scarecrow paralyzed in the middle of a target range. He tries to move again but can’t, and instead of focusing on what’s to come, he turns his thoughts to everything he’ll do to Frine when he’s free.
Then, a worse feeling begins to settle; the crippling realization that he cannot lend aid to his squadron. They will think he deserted them. If he loses their chance to go home, he won’t hear the end of it. He only hopes they won’t need him.
A volley roars from a range down the line. Footsteps pound offbeat somewhere nearby. They come closer, shaking the ground, rattling another scarecrow before him. He thinks this is a squad of heavily shelled pikemen until a shape pokes its head into view, sliding in the grass. On four legs and more like a lizard, it comes to him and stares through his visor. It crooks his head. It’s maybe ten feet long, but its Emergence Corps tunic has long since been ripped away, extra limbs bursting through that prod Anthem’s heavy armor, searching for a way in.
He would vomit if he could. This thing was once a man. And you’re next.
But then the maligned doesn’t so much as move away but slides away. Anthem follows its feet and finds two appendages where the legs should be, snaking down and combining into one longer tentacle that merges into a bigger thing. The remaining maligned is enormous, larger than their calculations accounted for. As Hamill expected, Fletcher must have been hiding the creatures in the forest. This one has a mammalian cast to its skin, a crab shape, giant pincers, and horse hooves flailing out its middle. Its tentacles slap the ground like whips, searching. Two of the things appear, then three, then a fourth one passes the slit. Anthem thinks that’s all until he counts four more, one for each squadron.
You’ll die here, Anthem realizes, as another volley roars and the maligned wander around him. Unfulfilled, far from your home and your aspirations. Who will remember you? Who will remember what you’ve done?
A drum pounds from the lookout tower, indicating more maligned entering the fray. Something scratches Anthem’s helmet and rakes it, trying to pry it off. A claw reaches through a hole and pokes at his tunic. Then the thing screams in curdling blood and flees, tearing Anthem away with it, dragging him, and pounding his head against the helmet. Colors burst in his vision.
Another volley whizzes musket balls past Anthem’s head. None of them hit, but more squadrons loose volleys every second as the range fills with the things. The armor is meant to withstand only a few shots. The paralyzer isn’t wearing off either, but the maligned seems to have pulled him to the far side of the track, far from the firing lines. If the crabs are near, then maybe the pikemen have already engaged, and he’ll have enough time to…
Thwack.
Pain surges somewhere beneath his stomach, near his legs. He can’t tell how deep it reaches, but it’s growing and could be dulled entirely by the paralyzer. He tries to move his leg but can’t. Some cold liquid trickles down as if he’s pissed himself. His body lightens, and the world seems to blink out. It becomes a lot harder to think, and slowly, his eyes start to close.
He drifts there, somewhere between consciousness and waking. A drum pounds from the lookout tower, men shout far off, and volleys crack until it seems the guns blaze every second, the balls hitting the ground nearby. The thwacks clap like an audience watching a grand finale. His grand finale.
It was good, I guess. Could have done more. Could have done so much more.
The air in the helmet thickens. Warms. Condensation forms in the glass. Every breath without his vesicle is a reminder that strands are crawling down into his lungs and will soon eat him alive if he doesn’t neutralize them. The world shutters. Slows. His attention drifts, and he feels at once, all-encompassing, that it would be such a wonderful thing to fall asleep right here. Yes, that sounds right and good and comforting.
He smells the air through the armor’s holes, the dirt below him, and the jungle. It smells like home now. Hells, as his eyes close, he swears he sees Kaskit, hears his students asking questions, and hears Evi Haricot shrieking as Muttens maligns. He’ll be back among them soon, just maybe not today.
Shouts come closer and closer. Footsteps right in front of him. More shouting. Someone bends over him and grabs his shoulder, and Anthem tries to push the person away out of fear that it’s Frine trying to reposition him and realizes he has control of his arms now. They are insistent, and on the other side of the heavy shell’s visor stares a familiar face.
Nedland slaps Anthem on his back and pulls him up when the final musket shot cracks to signify a squad is going home.