“I eagerly await their arrival, Lord Abraxas,” said Alastor, who seemed to crackle with alacrity now that his master was at the helm.
They exchanged a look, and Abraxas felt the closest approximation of love that his race could experience swell within him as he looked upon his son, his creation. Then Alastor turned, his cloak swirling as he exited Abraxas’s chamber.
****
“Over yonder is a pump waystation,” said Johnny, “and one of the outflow pipes. That’s where we’ll make our entrance. Any questions?”
No response. Letho just nodded, staring at the sky, the light of the moon reflected in his irises.
“One sec,” Johnny Zip said. He leapt out of the razorback and grabbed one of his ordnance crates. It looked heavy.
“Need some help?” Letho asked.
“Nah,” Johnny responded. “I’ll be right back.” He trudged to the pump waystation. After a few minutes, precious ones, he appeared at the entrance of the waystation and began to jog back to the razorback.
“All done?” Saul asked.
“Yessir. I just planted a a little present for Abraxas,” Johnny said, clutching a detonator like a swaddled baby.
“A little explosive to liven up the party?” Letho asked.
Johnny smiled. “There’s a gas line access point in there. If I trigger this detonator, it’ll set off a pretty spectacular chain reaction, all the way down the line, down the middle of Main Street and right up Alastor’s ass. A nice insurance policy. Just in case things go sideways on us.”
“An ace in the hole—I like it.” Saul said. “All right, away we go.” He put the pedal down again, and the razorback sped off toward the waystation.
The full-throated roar of the razorback’s engine masked the exited chitter emanating from a storm drain nearby. They did not see the number of gleaming eyes watching them from the rectangular orifice. The eyes disappeared, and the skittering of claws on concrete filled the night air.
****
Deacon rolled the nav spheres with dexterous hands and brought the warbird into a steep bank, its nose dropping. It was roughly half a rec-ball field in length, all stealth black and baffled edges to confuse radar. Deacon had fallen in love with her at first sight, and now that he had a feel for how she handled, he wanted to make babies with her. She was primarily a troop transport, but she also had plenty of offensive capabilities, including a mean set of 25mm cannons in the aft and fore that could fire eighteen hundred rounds per second—virtually guaranteed to turn Mendraga soldiers into red paste faster than Zedock Wartimer could say shine-ola. Deacon couldn’t wait to try them out.
Deacon thought for a moment about the best friend he had ever known, and he hoped that his friend’s mission would go smoothly—as he hoped that his own would. He thought about the old man Wartimer, and hoped that the old dog was watching from above somewhere, appreciating the way that he stroked the nav spheres and the way he was about to bring a hellstorm upon a few unsuspecting Mendraga.
This is for you, old man. Happy trails, he thought as he pushed the warbird downward through the sky, buffeting the warriors inside as the stratosphere attempted to tear it to pieces. He brought the ship down, low enough that even if Hastrom City had functioning radar systems, the ship would still be undetectable. Two other warships followed suit flying in V formation behind him. Below, a line of razorbacks and armored trucks kicked up a massive dust cloud in their wake as they sped across the abandoned expanse of freeway like a discarded ribbon.
Deacon tapped a series of commands on the ship’s data screen, and various readouts began to pour into the display in his visor.
“That’s strange. There doesn’t appear to be anyone on watch tonight. Maybe they didn’t expect an air force?”
“Very strange,” one of the pilots replied. “This may be over quick.”
The massive metal gate that protected Abraxas’s walled inner sanctum began to open.
“Here they come!” Deacon shouted.
Mendraga began to file out of the opening, boots moving in lockstep, rifles held against their chests. Several of them separated out from the main group, remaining in the rear as they dropped to one knee. They placed cylindrical metal objects on their shoulders, and Deacon’s console glowed red.
“WARNING, EXPLOSIVE PROJECTILES DETECTED WITHIN RANGE,” said a stern feminine voice. “LOCK-ON DETECTED. INITIATING AUTO-EVASIVE MANEUVERING.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Deacon muttered, flipping the manual override switch.
“Deacon, get us out of here!” Maka shouted.
“Really? Is that what I’m supposed to do, Maka? Because I wasn’t sure if I should…”
The smoky contrails were visible even from the cockpit as the Mendraga launched their deadly payloads. The ship launched a series of countermeasures, but the circuitry inside the rockets appeared to be too sophisticated to be fooled by such rudimentary tactics. Deacon spun the nav spheres, and the warship groaned as it rolled and hurtled upward, boosters glowing white-hot as the ship reached maximum velocity. He pushed the ship higher and higher, the rockets still trailing.
“Boys! Follow me up!” Deacon shouted into the com. “This is going to get hairy!No pun intended,” he added, shooting a grin at Maka.
“They’re getting closer!” one of the Tarsi shouted, peering out a porthole in the hold.
“I got this,” Deacon said.
Oxygen masks dropped from hidden panels in the ceiling. Tarsi fumbled with them, finding that they weren’t designed to fit over their snouts.
The volley of rockets sputtered, their propellant exhausted, and began to fall back to the earth below. Deacon cut the boosters to the ship, and it followed suit.
“Get us close, but not so close this time,” Maka said.
“Again with the suggestions,” Deacon muttered. “Getcha there in a sec.”
The warbirds dropped in a metal V back toward the ground. Within moments, the Mendraga were again visible beneath them. The rocketeers, as Deacon had labeled them, had rejoined the other soldiers, apparently all out of rocket-propelled ammo.
“Guess they’re one-pump chumps, eh, Maka?” Deacon said, turning to Maka and hoping for a smile on the Tarsi’s face. Nothing. “Okay then, guy with the plan, what now?”
“We’ll take it from here,” Maka said. “Tarsi, prepare for attack! Make your forefathers proud!”
The Tarsi on board shouted in the affirmative.
“Tarsi! Ready?” Maka shouted.
They answered in their sonorous language, a chorus of harmonious roars.
Deacon opened up on the Mendraga below with the ship’s twin mounted cannons, grinding the front line to pulp. Deacon’s console lit up red again, and the cabin filled with the roar of rushing air.
“What the hell?” he shouted. Maka had engaged the deployment hatch, and Tarsi were dropping out of the hatch one by one. Deacon’s mind ground to a halt, struggling with the absurdity of it all.
No parachutes! his mind screamed.
He watched as the Tarsi barreled into the throng of confused Mendraga—rolling as they hit the ground, or using the bodies of their enemies to cushion their fall. The Mendraga’s fear overcame their discipline; many had scattered like ants under the withering fire, and the sudden introduction of Tarsi from above further broke their lines. Deacon watched as the Tarsi sent Mendraga rag-dolling through the air with furious swats of their great paws. The citizens brought up the rear, rolling over Mendraga in armored vehicles and grinding them to pulp from a distance with vehicle-mounted cannons.
Incessant warning lights and the ship computer’s smug voice seized his attention.
“LOCK-ON DETECTED.”
“Crap,” Deacon muttered.
He banked hard left, but it was too late. The ship rocked with the impact, sending a shower of sparks and detritus into the air. Deacon choked as an acrid smoke filled his lungs. He pulled the oxygen mask down over his face, and his lungs cried out with joy in response to the pristine air. Then he brought his ship up out of rocket range, learning his lesson: Never assume the bad guys are out of ammo.