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I glanced at the sky. Where there was one, there were usually more. Drones had been outside and away from the hive when I’d blown it, killing their queen and leveling their home. Without it… without her… they became much more aggressive, killing anything that moved. Some of them had gone crazy as well. If they had a Cray, it was definitely dangerous.

“What do you want to do?” Crefloe asked.

I glanced at Suzie, who merely stared blankly at the horizon.

“I suppose we should be Samaritans.”

“You say that now,” he said. “Wait until you’re seeing what I see.”

Two minutes later, I was standing beside him in the shadow of a long-ago abandoned eighteen wheeler. There were six of them, all dressed like they’d stepped off the set of a medieval movie. One was on the ground, bleeding out, while another frantically tried to staunch the flow of blood. The four remaining — all dressed in either chainmail or hard metal armor like I’d seen knights wear in film — held long poles with axes on the end, shoving them menacingly into the face of a Cray whose leg had been trapped by what could only be a metallic-toothed bear trap.

“Knights of the Holy Cray,” I murmured.

The Cray had a torn and bloody wing. Standing nine feet tall, it looked vaguely like a praying mantis, if mantids had deadly elbow and knee spikes, razor-sharp talons that could rip through flesh like a hot knife through butter, fanged mandibles, and the ability to self-generate an EMP pulse that destroyed any electronics within their vicinity. That final weapon was the reason Earth hadn’t been able to put up much of a fight. So I guess it only made sense there’d be knights from the middle ages fighting the beast as if it were a dragon from yore.

“SCA,” Crefloe said. When he saw my confusion, he added, “Society for Creative Anachronism. Group of nerds who got together to pretend they were knights and bards and ladies and shit like that. No self-respecting brother would get anywhere near that nerd shit, but I was in lock up with this guy once who’d gotten popped for selling X at a jousting tournament.” When he saw my raised eyebrows, he added, “I shit you not, a certified for reals jousting tournament.”

Now the scene was starting to make sense. Two of the men wore chain mail and had what appeared to be Norman helms. The chain mail over their torso was a shirt, while a chain mail skirt protected their bottoms. Beneath these were leather leggings that ran into knee-high boots. A third man was dressed in a classic knight’s outfit, the Ferrari symbol emblazoned on his chest. He carried a sword and was busily ordering the two men who were attacking the Cray. A fourth man stood beside the knight with a cumbersome crossbow holding a bolt that looked as if it could take down a charging rhino. On the ground was the second man in a knight’s outfit. His chest had been ripped open by the Cray’s claws. Had I been there to confer with them prior to their insane attack on a Cray, I would have let them know that nothing short of an anodized Faraday cage-protected EXO would protect them from its weapons. But then again, no one ever asks me shit. Another chain-mailed warrior was trying to save the armored nerd on the ground.

“What do you want to do?” Crefloe asked.

“Remove your radio and leave them here with your ruck. Let’s go save these knights.”

After a few moments, we were ready to join the fray.

I held my M4 at low ready and moved forward with purpose.

The knight saw me when I was about twenty feet away from the Cray.

“Stop, good sir! We have this under control.”

I ignored him. Took another six steps, fixed my gaze through my ACOG and fired a short burst into each of the Cray’s eyes.

It didn’t cry out. It didn’t lunge. It merely fell to the ground.

I turned to the two men with halberds. “You can leave off that shit now.”

They looked at each other, backed away, then turned to their knight.

I could see Crefloe over by the downed man. He was shaking his head and moving the knife edge of his hand across his neck.

“How dare you interfere in a knight’s work,” came a shout, a little too imperious for my liking.

I aimed my M4 at him, wondering if the lead-tipped bullets would make it through the armor.

The crossbowman aimed at me as well.

“You can’t go around playing with these things,” I said. “Someone’s bound to get hurt.”

“Sir Porsche was trying to make a name for himself,” the man said. “I am his liege.”

Jesus Christ on a pogo stick. Two men who’d named themselves after expensive luxury cars. By the insignia on this one’s chest, I had no doubt what to call him.

“Listen Sir Ferrari,” I began, but he interrupted.

“I’m not surprised you know me. I have a certain amount of fame.”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. This douche bag was more of a nut job than most of the folks under Mother’s care.

I lowered my M4 to low ready and looked at the two men in chain mail. “You guys enjoying your game? Look at Sir Porsche over there. It could have been you.”

The man on the left looked scared, but the one on the right took issue with my comment.

“You live how you want to live, pal. Let us live how we want to live. We ain’t hurting none but ourselves.” Then he raised his voice. “What do you want us to do, my liege?”

“Let the mercenary pass,” boomed the voice. “We’ll seek a beast elsewhere.”

I began to walk away, just as one of the men cried out. As I turned, I saw a Cray hurtling toward the ground, foot and hand claws out. The crossbowman fired, but this time missed, and paid for it with his life as the beast landed on him with four sets of claws, ripping and tearing, everything a blur.

Sir Ferrari backed away.

His two liegemen got in front of him, halberds out.

Before I could do anything, the man who’d spoken to me was mowed down by a whirlwind of claws and spikes, his chainmail as effective as papier mâché. The other turned and ran, and was soon followed by the knight who clanked as he ran past.

…leaving me the sole target for the Cray.

I’d faced them down in EXO suits. I’d faced them down without suits in the bowels of Kilimanjaro. I’d even faced them down in Dodger Stadium. I’d survived every encounter yet, so to be fodder for some half-baked knight named after an Italian racing car seemed like the perfect fuck you the Universe had been planning for me, and I was damned if I was going to let that happen.

I began backing away. I raised my M4 and put five rounds into its left eye, or tried at least. It turned at the last moment, and the rounds ricocheted off the tough skin of its head.

Then it dove toward me. I ran left and dove to the ground myself, feeling the impact of the asphalt all the way through my teeth. I rolled sideways as I emptied a full magazine of 5.56 mm rounds into the alien’s torso.

That slowed it down, but it kept coming.

I scooted backwards and then was on my feet, snapping free the empty, and slamming home a full magazine.

I heard the crack of two 9mms firing from behind the Cray.

The alien spun, crouching to take off.

I fired into its back, letting the magazine drain to nothing even as smoke poured from the barrel.

The Cray turned its head to see me and I felt an alien presence in there watching me. Was it one of the masters? My brain tickled as something tried to find a home. Then it took flight, wings moving weakly but effectively.

Strange. I’d never known a Cray not to fight to the death. It made me wonder if maybe it was not under its own control.

Crefloe came up to me, holstering his pistols.

“You okay, boss?”

“Peachy,” I said, sliding in a fresh magazine in case the Cray decided to return. “Just fucking peachy.”