3. 8

Bang

Zen looks up from the fabricator and turns around in time to see a bullet approach, less than an inch from his head. He exerts, and the lump of lead vanishes in an envelope of indigo energy. The soldier that fired it doesn’t hesitate, and pulls the trigger again.

Nadia watches as Zen raises a hand, and the soldier, except for his legs, vanishes in a flash. Gunfire erupts from all over the room, and she is nearly blinded as every projectile in the air is absorbed in a blink of light, then suddenly reappears to plunge into the skull of the soldier who fired it. Seventeen bodies slump to the floor, including the young man who had shakily shushed her, his pistol pointed to her neck. She reflexively grabs her throat, coughing, having only just processed what she has seen. They appeared from nowhere, as if formed from the shadows themselves.

[Joy. Where is Joy?] 

She looks, and beholds something unexpected. Zen clutches the doorframe, shaking. A strange white smoke curls from the edges of his prism head, shimmering and writhing like the tentacles of some sea monster wrapped around the hull of a doomed clipper. Light seems to bend around him, and in a moment, she is alone.

He holds his rifle in one hand, and wipes his brow with the other. No word from F team. He heard gunshots, however.

He inches forward, following his squadmates as they enter something like a cafeteria. Tables with benches stand at odd angles around the floor. A camera, deactivated by the pulse, hangs from its post in the corner. In the center of the room, a woman with snow-white hair sits at a table, humming softly.

A boot creaks. She turns her head, and he glimpses an eye like a ruby. Something glimmers in her hand. She stands suddenly, and the squad leader hurries towards her, then stops a foot away. He teeters, unsteady, then falls backward, the handle of a knife protruding from his eye.

Five guns erupt into fire. Then, they are surrounded. In the breadth of a thought, every table has a machine soldier standing on it, preceded by a burst of light. The woman is nowhere to be seen. Twenty seven disintegrators lock on target, and five find their marks.

Zen holds Joy in his hands. His eye searches her for wounds, and finds none. There is no time for relief. He raises a hand, and clutches a fist. The planet blinks out of sight, and reappears far, far away.

The automaton soldiers disperse through the building, and soon gunfire and the whine of disintegrators fills the air with a cacophony that brings Joy to tears, pressing her face to his chest. She whispers, unheard over the chaos.

“Failed. Worse, the planet has moved again, and the informant aboard has perished. If the subject takes another prisoner, measures may be taken to sever the connection. We will never get such a chance again.”

The advisor lowers the report and looks to the slight figure standing at the far end of the room. She says nothing. General Dupont, however, speaks up.

“It was a long shot anyway. A direct insertion is far from a preferable way to gain control of an enemy installation. If we could’ve risked sending half the fleet, we would’ve. All that remains-”

The woman raises a hand, silencing the general. She lowers the hand, and clasps it behind her back, continuing to look out onto the planetary city of Capitale, watching exterior elevators travel along gilded rails, floating trains deposit passengers onto flower-riddled verandas, and hulking ships drift in the sky above silvery buildings. It takes a full minute for her to look away.

“Reinforce all our installations. Have another fleet constructed and crewed. The Xalanthii shall have to supply us with more of their advisors.”

The advisor bows, and departs, leaving the two alone. Dupont clears his throat and catches the woman’s eye with his own. His grey irises wobble under the pressure exerted by the bronze discs peering out from under her modest brow.

“You have thoughts, general.”

“Your majesty-”

“A monarch in secret is no monarch at all, general.”

“I understand. Your orders suggest you expect retaliation. Why would a machine-”

“A machine wouldn’t. Our foe is no such thing.”

Dupont is silent. He leans back in his seat and straightens his suit. The woman resumes looking out the window.