A resistance warship flies into battle against the Conglomerate, a mecha-company conquering planets for minerals and slave labor. When the ship crashes above the plains, the five people on board battle for survival across their world, pursued by th...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
They hit the edge of the marshes as a heavy twilight descends on what remains of the Resistance.
The Marshes are a sprawl before them, a warren of waterways, hanging tree limbs and scrubby, woody plants with vicious natural protections. The humid stink of earth and water mingle, rising from the swamps in a wave of putrid detritus.
Dusk light turns the marsh water and pools of bloody liquid to the same dark sheen. Soon their boots are soaked, dried sweat forming salty lines on haggard faces as weak new tracks of perspiration slide downwards. The General's heaving breathes have shifted to pathetic wheezes, but they have to keep struggling onwards, into the reeds and the scrubby trees. The bellow of the warbeasts on the plains ring even here, causing ripples to eddy in the shallow ponds.
The Mechanic and The Recruit are supporting The General, his once florid face no longer ruddy, now pale, a moon rising in the dark. The Gunner shuffles with The Pilot, keeping the smaller woman upright, doggedly moving onwards. She will stumble occasionally, but The Gunner is always gently there, close enough to help, far enough not to damage pride. They all surpassed weary hours ago, but the battlefield is still too close and they are on foot.
They break quickly, quietly, as the twilight deepens, the sunslight fading faster to the darkness, too tired to keep moving without at least a brief reprieve. The Pilot staggers a bit and nods gratefully to the Recruit when he hands her a water skin. The General is more coherent now and muttering angry words to the Mechanic, propped up against the dead stump of a rotted tree. The Pilot is too tired to intervene, her green eyes going dull with fatigue. The Gunner keeps a look out, holding one of their ion rifles loosely at her waist, strong arms swollen with ripped muscle fibers after a long day that seems to not end.
"Do you need help?" The Recruit asks the Double as she fumbles with the bandages on her arm, blood still welling, clots having yet to form. After valiantly trying and failing, The Pilot finally nods in defeat. She winces as the fabric peels away the start of her scabs and the Recruit murmurs an apology she brushes off. Underneath, the skin is puckered and red, the threat of infection lurking. "I think I have some salve in my pack," The Recruit whispers to her and she nods.
"Serves you right." The Pilot meets The General's watery, posturing gaze, his eyes moving from her wound to her face in challenge.
"Do you really want to test me again?" The Pilot says softly, the deep knife wound he inflicted dribbling blood between them.
The General stares her down, The Mechanic and The Gunner watching from the fringes, estimating power in each camp. "You would have gotten us all killed," he splutters at her, drool and blood on his lips. He is fumbling to maintain his superiority, not knowing it is already lost, was lost the moment he became dead weight in the fight for survival.
"And yet now you're the only one on the brink of death," The Pilot says coolly, level expression frigid. The General's face contorts, red with rage, jowly with age, slick with sweat, an overripe fruit ready to burst with rot.
"I would have saved their lives," The General says, looking around at the other three Resistance members, seeking support that is already forfeit. "You would have led them to their deaths. And for what? For the sake of a few Natives?"
The Gunner's flinty eyes narrow fractionally and The Recruit sees her finger flex on the trigger of her ion rifle. He shuffles over to The Pilot, keeping his head down as The General and The Pilot do verbal battle, vitriol and secrets trading blows.
"You know as well as I do, that sacrifices must be made in war," The Pilot tells him evenly. "The difference between you and me is that I'm willing to make them."
The General chuckles, a wheezing, wet sound that turns into a violent cough. "You're such a noble little fool," he sneers at The Pilot once he regains his breath. "You put so much faith in a people that hate you."
There is some undercurrent to the conversation that The Recruit does not understand but he sees The Mechanic's eyes narrow in consideration at The Pilot as the Recruit rubs salve on her arm.
She laughs right back at him, an ugly, sardonic twist to her features. "What is it to you?" she asks. She meets The General's eyes with a spearing gaze that would eviscerate if it was steel. "You lost faith a long time ago. It's not a sin for the rest of us to cling to it."
Silence between them as the battle sounds in the distance dwindle to whimpers.
"We need to get moving," The Gunner murmurs. "I can't hear the infantry in pursuit but that doesn't mean they aren't close."
The Mechanic looks at her, then nods, not wanting to be caught here with the General's blood making an easily trackable pool in the marsh ground. "Take rearguard with me?" he asks The Gunner. She nods, once quick, but her eyes stay wary. She can see past his attempt at peacemaking.
The Gunner and The Mechanic take up rearguard positions with their ion rifles, The Gunner shouldering The Recruit's pack so he can take The General's weight. The Pilot quickly binds her wounded arm to her side and uses her good arm to take The General's weight on the other side. The Recruit looks worriedly at her, not wanting to question her fitness. She gives him a wan smile and nods. "I'll manage."
The edge of the marshes is still too close behind them, the plains underfoot already swollen with water, squelching at tired feet, sucking worn boots and generating blisters. Even if they do make the deeper swamp-line, the infantry will come in after them scouring, trying to flush them out.
As they push deeper into the swamp fringe-lands, a ferocious, bone-chilling chorus of howls erupts from the plains behind them.
"Muckrudders," The Gunner swears in a soft voice. "They've got trackers."
There is a bleakness to the calculations in The Pilot's eyes. The General's weight is sagging into her, his pauchy form like a grisly sack that shifts against her. The Recruit is wobbling, trying to be stoic, but fearful tears are threatening in his eyes, animal desperation soon to replace rational thought.
"Deeper in," The Pilot hisses at her comrades. "Our only hope is to lose them in the twisted waters at the saya'bu tree roots. We have to get to the saya'bu groves."
