Methkog: Rounds
Rounds cracked through the air as Methkog advanced down the slope. Snow puffed into the air and cratered as the high-powered bullets plunged into the drifts. He marched down toward the battlefield, ignoring each increasing fusillade that tore the air like lightning. Newly decanted Makyul couldn’t aim to save their cloned souls.
Or their lives for that matter.
It was so convenient for the pirate king he could hardly believe it. A small storage outpost, nearly at the northern pole of Cryce, garrisoned with brand-new Makyul just out of training. He’d suspected a trap from the very beginning—why else would an entire species bred for war have such an exposed facility? He’d planned accordingly. Strike hard. Strike fast. Get out.
The initial mortar attack had brought the light blue beasts storming out of their bunkered facility like ants from a kicked mound. True to form they’d grabbed the nearest weapon, or object that worked as a weapon, and ran headlong into the triple lines of pirates dug into the snow and rock at the mountain’s base. The Makyul’s blind rage is so predictable without the proper training, Methkog had known, and it caused them to stampede into the mouth of fifteen roto-cannons. Each one fired bolts so quickly they cut down Makyul with a solid line of laser-powered death. Methkog counted at least six waves before snow stained with blue blood finally broke the clone’s red haze of hatred.
They’d become more tactical. Energy spheres crowded the air over the pirate troops. They crackled as they lazily expanded, sizzling against fallen snow and any raider not crowded under hex cover. Blue lightning ran along a multitude of brightly colored shields that, millimeters thick, were the only thing between Methkog’s men and women and a painful, slow death, as they belly crawled forward.
Judging by the screams he could tell some hadn’t managed to get the shields up in time, or their will was flagging. They wouldn’t have been worth keeping around anyway, he decided.
Mortars whistled overhead, parting the lightly falling snow. The rounds fell short. Packed snow fountained into the air, momentarily blinding the Makyul gunners. Under this cover, raiders rushed forward in short bursts before dropping back into the snow and blazing away at the hulking clones.
A second volley fell right on the Makyuls’ heads. Methkog felt deep satisfaction at seeing concrete, debris, and Makyul scattering about the snow. He stalked forward, watching his troops move ahead in drilled waves of covering fire. Yes, there were gaps, perhaps even more than he had hoped, but he knew—thanks to the timer on his helmet’s HUD—the clones would be on the run soon.
A howl grew over the mountains and crested into a tuneless shriek. His five fighters, weighted down with makeshift bunker-busters, lumbered through the air. Straining against their loads, they made a careful pass and dropped their bombs.
The blasts rocked Methkog backed on his heels. As the smoke cleared he could see the wall was blown in. Thin tendrils of gray smoke were still spiraling into the air as the pirate squads approached, weapons at the ready. Methkog himself drew the sword hanging at his hip. He peered into the darkness and tightened his grip on the leather-wrapped hilt.
Makyul still alive made their presence known. Rounds chipped into the concrete and knocked down the first raiders who entered the bunker. Grenades, screams, laser fire—all echoed off the walls as the pirates pushed on. The bulk of them pushed right, deeper into the upper bunker levels. A smaller group, perhaps fifty, coalesced around their leader.
“Move,” Methkog said. His deep voice, muffled as it was by his helmet, crackled unnaturally and made him all the less human.
The group descended into the deepest sections of the bunker. Methkog stayed at the head, his sword trailing behind him in his grip and leaving a shallow gouge in the floor. As they all descended the crump of mortar, gun, and laser fire quieted. Only the shrieks and roars of the dying truly cut through the corridors.
One final door stood between them and their prize. A hangar door, larger than anything they’d ever seen before, towered stories above them. It was set into the very stone the bunker was built upon. Four raiders split from the group and sprinted toward the control console. Flashing red warning symbols indicated an automatic lockdown. Each raider rolled a toolkit from their belt and began to override the console. Given the circular locking mechanism fixed perfectly in the door’s center, and the dozens of revolving tumblers, it would take some time. The rest of the raiders formed a defensive arc around their hackers, weapons at the ready.
A growl rumbled from the shadows across the wide bay. It grew louder, eventually shaking dust from the ceiling braces and forcing Methkog’s troops to cover their ears. He stood firm, staring into the gloom.
The sensors in his helmet picked up the Makyul Alpha before he could see it.
Striding forward, it came into the floodlights. It wore no armor over its thick hide and carried only a mace. The weapon’s hex symbols lit the Alpha’s chiseled body and rough ridges in high contrast with its orange light. The Alpha slammed the mace into the floor, the sound ringing in the bay, as he roared his challenge.
Methkog stepped forward, noting how none of his troops even tried to stop him or volunteer. Cowards, he thought to himself. He’d always known it, but to see it in action was disgusting.
His hex shield sprang to life from his left gauntlet. Its dark violet glow seemed to capture more light than it reflected. Rolling his shoulders, readying for the fight, he took a wide stance and faced the Alpha head on.
It charged, not waiting another second. The mace arced overhead. It crashed against Methkog’s shield in an orange explosion, crackling and shooting sparks through the air. The shield easily held, and the pirate could see the shock in the Makyul’s dark eyes. Methkog flexed his entire body, shoving the Alpha away and unbalancing it.
Methkog slashed at the clone’s stomach, barely scratching its scales as it jumped back. Spinning, the Alpha brought his mace around, aiming at Methkog’s chest, but the pirate moved faster than his armor suggested. He parried with the sword’s flat, shoulder checked the Alpha, and kicked at its knee.
It was like kicking solid stone.
The Makyul swung his fist in a haymaker and socked Methkog in the jaw, bouncing his head inside the helmet. Equilibrium left for a moment. The pirate king staggered back, shield flickering as his will ebbed and flowed within his body.
Like an orange comet coming around in orbit, the mace flew toward Methkog’s head to finish him off. He dropped to a knee and the mace whistled over his head, faintly skimming against his helmet. Throwing himself forward, the pirate tackled the Alpha, spearing him in the gut with his armor’s spikes. The Alpha bellowed in pain, scales cracking around the wound. His blows pounded Methkog’s shield and rained down on his armored back as the pirate worked the spikes in as deeply as possible. The heavy punches dented his amor, but dropped him to his knees when he took a shot to the kidneys.
His shield fizzled out.
As the mace again flew at his head, Methkog rolled. His armor clattered against the concrete, but the sound of splintering stone drowned it out. Coming up in a crouch, sword wavering in front of him, Methkog saw the Alpha pull his mace from a crater where part of the floor used to be.
More careful now, Methkog skillfully feinted, parried, and riposted between and through the Alpha’s swings. It took more concentration than piloting a fighter through Pormos’ hellish atmosphere and he kept track of the mace’s aim, where his feet were planted, and how he could dodge his way to safety. His sword bit through the Alpha’s flesh with ease. Each cut, nick, or slice cast another dram of blue blood through the air. His will restored, Methkog’s hex shield sprang back to life, allowing him to block the worst mace blows he couldn’t hope to dodge.
In the background the tumblers began to lock into place. Each movement announced itself with a metallic screech that shook the air. Only two were left by the time the Alpha began to pant, and his swings became increasingly desperate and feeble.
When a halfhearted blow to his knees came Methkog’s way he simply kicked the weapon from the Alpha’s hand. Dropping into a spin, he severed the clone’s thick leg above the knee.
The Makyul fell to the ground without even a whimper. It stared up at the pirate king with a passive expression.
Standing over the Alpha, Methkog spun the sword in his grip and aimed the point directly at its heart. The Makyul made no move to prevent the killing blow as it drove through its chest. The Alpha shuddered, its eyes went dark, and it fell still. Methkog freed his sword, snapping it into the air to shed it of dark blue blood.
As he stored the blade in his personal vortex the bay doors began to rumble. By the time they were open Methkog had the fallen Alpha’s mace in hand and the hex runes were glowing a dark violet.
He was able to gaze on his prize. Prizes, he corrected himself. Bathed in bright light, the six reactors looked more impressive than they were. Worn down? Perhaps. But they would be the newest ones by years in the pirates’ possession. Methkog only needed two for his base, but who could ever turn down extra power?
It took only moments for transportation pods to activate and begin hovering inches off the floor. With the lightest of touches the reactors glided forward. The pirate band marched in quick time down the long corridor. Methkog marched at the center of the procession, taking the time to gaze at his newest possessions. The mace rested against his shoulder. Its weight was surprisingly comforting.
Outside they were greeted with dozens of Makyul and human corpses, craters, rubble, and more snow. Six heavy transports hovered overhead, bay doors open and gunners at the ready. When they lifted off eight minutes later they were laden with precious reactors and a pirate company down by more than a quarter.
Methkog rode in the lead transport, slouching in the copilot’s seat. As the white sky of Cryce faded into the blackness of space, he ran his fingers over the dent in his helmet and scowled. He would have to do better next time.