C. Cargill - Sea of Rust

I didn’t hear the pop. Or the sizzle. Or the wilting dying scream. All I heard was cacophonous gunfire as I turned six facets into ten thousand tiny pieces. It wasn’t until I let off the trigger and the gun spun down that I heard Herbert’s booming bellow and realized something was terribly wrong.

I turned to look and saw the smoking wreck of Rebekah, her chest torn open by a plasma blast, her forearm blown off just below the elbow. She’d tried to shield her vitals with her arm and ended up losing both.

“Mercer, go!” Herbert yelled.

The smoker growled to life, shaking and sputtering somewhere between a five and a six on the Richter scale. A plume of black diesel smoke belched into the air as Mercer threw the smoker into reverse, laying on the gas. He turned the wheel and we lurched in a half circle through the center of the compound, over the scattered confetti of facets, through the main gate, and out into the open desert.

We jerked to a stop, gears grinding, Mercer haphazardly shifting into drive before slamming on the gas again. Tendrils of thick, black smoke trailed in our wake, mixing with the clouds of dust the treads were tossing up behind us.

The madkind lined up along the walls, pointing and yelling at us, but there was little they could do. There was one more dropship still in the air, which was a far bigger threat than we were.

Finally, the compound began to fade behind us as we put as much distance between us and it as we could.

I scanned the skies for drones, certain there had to be some left. Behind me Doc worked furiously, cracking open Rebekah’s chest plate, rooting around in her innards with his hand. Herbert kept his spitter trained on the compound, expecting trouble to follow us at any moment.

“How bad is it?” asked Herbert.

“Bad,” said Doc.

“How bad is bad?”

“Real bad.”

“I don’t feel like we’re getting anywhere with this conversation.”

“And we won’t until I can dig through this mess and see how much of her wasn’t fried. So if you’d just give me a—”

“Incoming!” I shouted.

Three drones, trailed by the fourth dropship, all breaking off from the compound and headed our way.

Herbert fired the spitter. The drones were too far out to hit, but he knew that; Herbert was sending a message.

I swiveled the chain gun around on its mount, eyeballing the ammo. I had enough left for ten, maybe fifteen seconds’ worth of fire. These things chewed through ammo like they were starving. I had to aim my shots carefully, conserve what was left.

The drones came in low and fast, closing the distance in almost no time.

They fired, unleashing their final volley of missiles.

The missiles howled through the sky, straight at us, white contrails swirling behind them, painting a smoky crisscross in the air as they wove around one another.

Six of them.

Seconds away.

Clumping together as they all homed in on us.

I pulled the trigger and the chain gun awoke, belting out a hundred rounds a second.

The entire smoker rattled with the force of the gun, the mount threatening to shake loose its bolts at the punishment.

Missiles popped like firecrackers, the explosions large, too high and too far for us to even feel the blast.

Two of the drones shattered midair behind them, wings breaking apart, fluttering to the ground; their bodies nose-diving, a trail of smoking debris chasing them down. I’d hit them both by happy accident while trying to hit the missiles.

There was only one left now, all but toothless with just a pair of linked plasma rifles spraying fire at us as it drew closer.

Herbert steadied his aim, waited for the drone to finally catch up, then loosed another shot at it.

The plasma caught the drone head-on.

Nothing came out of the other side, the lightweight materials of the drone evaporating instantly in the white-hot gas.

In the distance behind us trailed the dropship. Slower and less maneuverable than the drones, but catching up to us rapidly. The smoker, after all, was a lumbering thing; a land whale. There wasn’t much in this world that couldn’t outrun us. We had maybe twenty, twenty-five seconds before the ship overtook us.

Herbert took aim.

I steadied the chain gun.

The dropship closed in on us.

Herbert fired.

The ship dropped fifteen feet and the shot sailed over it.

The spitter whined as it recharged. Herbert fired again, this time a little lower.

The ship dipped to the side, the plasma missing it by mere feet. The ship was getting too close for comfort.

“Smoke ’em,” said Herbert.

I pulled the trigger and the smoker shook once more, hundreds of clanking shells shucked out the side. The hail of bullets tore through the front of the ship, tattering what little plating it had. Within seconds there was nothing left of the nose, and if there was a cockpit up front, it went along with it. Twenty facets went tumbling one by one out the side.

I swung the gun around, trying to get as many as I could before they hit the ground, but only managing to scatter three of them to the wind.

The dropship careened through the air, hovering midclimb, hanging in the air for the briefest moment before spinning wildly out of control and slamming nose first into the ground. The crash crushed two facets, the concussion of the blast took out two more.

Thirteen determined facets raced after us, slow enough that they couldn’t quite catch us, but fast enough to keep pace.

I pulled the trigger again and it burped out another short burst before the sound of a steady cling-cling-cling-cling-cling-cling signaled the last of my ammo.

Herbert fired, his target leaping high enough in the air to just barely miss having his feet sizzled off.

“Two, take the wheel,” said Mercer.

“What?” said Two meekly.

“I said take the goddamned wheel.”

Two stepped up to the driver’s seat, he and Mercer switching places. Then Mercer stepped to the back of the smoker, rifle in hand. “I got this.”

“You’re not going to hit anything with that from the back of a moving smoker,” said Herbert.

“Watch me.” He raised the rifle to his eye, prepared his shot.

Crack. Crack. Crackcrack.

Four shots.

Four facets reeled backward, their chests exploding.

Mercer popped out the clip and reloaded. “You were saying?”

“Carry on,” said Herbert.

“That’s what I thought.” He raised the rifle again and emptied the clip in quick succession, each shot finding its mark; each shot dropping a facet entirely. Mercer popped the freshly emptied clip, reloading once more.

Only one facet remained.

The facet stopped running, standing still, staring at us, sending back whatever data he could to CISSUS before Mercer’s shot ended him.

Mercer took his time with that shot, like he was savoring it. He pulled the trigger and the facet crumpled to the ground, a bowling-ball-size hole blown out his back.

Mercer set the rifle down, and without a word returned to the driver’s seat. He and Two exchanged places.

I looked at Herbert. “The Cheshire King. He knew about other receptacles.”

“Yes.”

“So it’s all true, isn’t it? The mission. TACITUS.”

He nodded. “Every word of it.” Then he knelt next to Doc and Rebekah’s lifeless shell. “How is she?”

“She’s done,” said Doc. “Her memory is intact, but her core, primary systems, everything, fried. Melted beyond repair. Even if I had the parts, I couldn’t put her back together properly.”

Everyone looked at Two. “Oh God,” he said. “This is it. This is how it happens.” You could see it in his eyes. Even as emotionless as a translator was supposed to be, his eyes spoke with fear, overflowing with existential dread. Until this moment he had never questioned his own mortality. He believed in the cause, but was now staring down the barrel of his last few moments of life. “You have to put her memory in my body, don’t you?”