Tony Ballantyne - Twisted Metal

As if on cue, the wind blew a differently patterned sound towards them.

‘Not our rifles,’ observed Eleanor, thoughtfully.

She stared across the expanse of the bowl to where a handful of Scouts lay unmoving in a bank of snow. It took her a moment, and then she spotted them. Black iron robots advancing steadily. Big bodies, heavy panelling. Mining robots. A squad of infantry saw them, fell back, hesitated, then raised their rifles and let off a volley before falling back again.

‘Fools,’ said Eleanor. ‘Their rifles won’t pierce that metal.’

‘They’re panicking,’ said Kavan. ‘Eleanor, get yourself down there.’

‘I’m gone.’

She unslung her rifle and ran off down the hillside, heading straight for the infantry troop. It was only when she was gone that she realized that Kavan had done it again. He had sent her away from the command position.

It was too late to worry about that now. The mining robots were already upon the infantry. Slow-moving, they sought to catch hold of the Artemisians and crush them. The grey soldiers dodged them easily, but discipline had broken down. There was no order to their movements, they were panicking, firing their rifles at random.

A flash of silver nearby, and Eleanor saw three Scouts emerging from a nearby doorway. They were carrying something.

‘Drop it!’ called Eleanor. ‘Come with me!’

The leader extended her eyes, spread her claws at having been spoken to in this fashion. Then she realized who had addressed her.

‘Look at these, Eleanor,’ she said, holding out a metal sphere, roughly the size of a skull. ‘I think they’re important.’

Eleanor didn’t give the object a second glance.

‘Leave them for later. Come on,’

The three Scouts dropped their loads and followed Eleanor down the hill.

Ahead, one of the mining robots had succeeded in grabbing hold of an Artemisian. It lifted it in the air, one great hand taking hold of the head and crushing it. It dropped the crumpled body and immediately made a grab for another.

The remaining infantry raised their rifles and let loose a hail of bullets that spanged ineffectually from its body.

‘Get back in line!’ yelled Eleanor. The milling troop turned to see who had shouted at them. There was a moment’s confusion, and then recognition.

‘We can’t hurt them,’ called an infantryrobot.

‘Not with your rifles,’ said Eleanor. ‘But that doesn’t mean you give up. Do it like this!’ And a wild recklessness overtook her as she plunged forward over broken rubble, dancing around in front of one of the huge mining robots. Slowly, it lunged to grab at her arm; she quickly dodged out of its way. But it was a trick: it reached out and grabbed her other arm easily. One of the Scouts raised its rifle. ‘Leave it,’ called Eleanor, as she was lifted up into the air. She twisted around in its grasp and saw how the dark metal of its body was scratched by the rocks through which it burrowed, saw the thick grease that oiled its joints, saw the thick glass lenses of its eyes. Now the other arm was reaching in for her head, hand extended, ready to crush her thin skull and the wire beneath it. She waited, waited for the right moment… And now she swung herself forward, detached her pinioned arm, leaving the big miner stupidly holding it. As she gripped the robot’s head between her thighs, she reached out with her remaining arm, popped the lid of its head open, took hold of her awl, dipped it into the big black skull and tangled and pulled loose the blue-green wire nestling within.

The mining robot died, slumping forward, and Eleanor fell to the ground awkwardly, her balance gone. One of the Storm Troopers retrieved her arm from the fallen robot’s grip and slotted it back in place. She flexed it, found it was dented at the elbow, but it would do. She turned back to the remaining infantry.

‘That’s how it’s done,’ she called. ‘Come on!’

Heartened, they attacked. She saw one mining robot fall, then another. Just as she began to feel the first wave of satisfaction at her work, there was a shout and then something tumbled down close to her feet.

A rough sphere, slightly smaller than a head.

It exploded in a tangle of blue wire.

Through the swirling snow, in the last of the evening light, Kavan watched as Eleanor defeated the mining robot.

‘Good work,’ he noted approvingly. ‘If nothing else, she is a fighter.’

Then he noticed that dark shapes had begun falling amongst the right flank of the attack. One of them fell at Eleanor’s feet: he saw the explosion, he saw her fall.

‘They’re coming from farther around the bowl,’ said Wolfgang, pointing.

‘What are they?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Send Anders’ troop up there to deal with them.’

Wolfgang relayed the order to a waiting Scout. Kavan turned back to observe the unfolding attack. Things were going well. Losses were still acceptable.

He looked towards the skeletal tower that squatted at the centre of the valley: a ball of riveted copper plate, supported on iron legs. Was the Wizard waiting in there, directing his defence?

‘What about Eleanor?’ asked Wolfgang.

‘What about her?’ Kavan gazed out over the darkening battlefield. ‘Artemis is not about individuals. Either she lived or she died. The attack goes on.’

A sudden blast of snow covered Kavan’s metal body, and he staggered. The wind was particularly strong here at the end of the corridor of rock, blasted through the mountain by their bombs.

‘We need to move,’ said Wolfgang. ‘The engineers need to clear this area if we are going to run a railway into here.’

‘Very well.’ Kavan was looking at the fractured rock walls around them. ‘We’ll move over to the left, I think. It should give us a good view over the battle when daylight returns.’

Kavan and his aides began to pick their way along a path that led around the rim of the stone crater. They compacted the snow with their metal feet or scuffed it aside. Kavan looked with interest at the line of trees planted along the side of the path. Their branches had been carefully pruned away along one side, keeping the way clear. Someone had been taking proper care of these organic life forms.

Across the expanse of the bowl, the skeletal tower seemed to be watching him.

‘Maybe we should regroup?’ suggested Wolfgang. ‘Hold off until the light is better?’

‘No. We don’t need to see to destroy. They are at a disadvantage.’

And as he spoke, light flared up from the skeletal tower: a golden fountain of light that rose into the deepening night, illuminating all of the battle. And then a ribbon of fire spilled out along the ground, unrolling from the flimsy-looking structure of the tower. And then another, and another. It became a crisscrossing net of flame that spread throughout the land below them.

‘What is it?’ wondered Kavan.

‘Petrol,’ said Wolfgang. ‘They’ve filled trenches with petrol! They’re lighting up the night so that they can see the battle!’

The orange light became like a solid wall sweeping across the North Kingdom, till it evinced an almost tangible presence: Kavan saw the way the falling snow danced and billowed upwards, repelled by the heat of the flames. Black smoke belched out and began to flow west.

‘West, not south!’ observed Wolfgang. ‘The heat’s affecting the wind,’

Something else was burning. One by one, great hands of fire were igniting, fiery fists brandished at the sky. And then Kavan realized what he was seeing: the trees that lined the paths through the North Kingdom were igniting, bursting forth with blossoms of red fire, adding more smoke to the line snaking west.

‘They’re sacrificing part of their own city,’ said Kavan, in awed tones.