53. Last Muster
53 – Last Muster
Hector arched his back as the aura burned through him, and his mind lost sight of everything; his sole focus, his sole desire became the spilling of the PK’s blood. His ribs popped and clicked as the aura coursed through them; his wrist straightened and the bones fused in a lance of fiery pain; and his flesh, scorched and flayed by the blaster’s plasma, rapidly filled in. The Berserk ability was restoring his flesh, but it wasn’t gentle.
If he’d been aware of anything other than the pain and his desire to slaughter, Hector might have watched in fascination as the new skin grew over his plasma burns, sloughing away the puckered, bloody, and blackened stuff. As it was, he was barely aware of it. He leaped to his feet, took two long strides, and launched himself at Logan’s back, slamming into the man’s armored torso with enough force to send him into a stumble.
Logan reacted immediately. His powered armor whined as he twisted and crouched, then launched himself up and back, slamming Hector into the ground. Hector didn’t care; he was a pit bull with a rat. As his ribs broke anew, as Logan writhed and pushed with his legs, grinding Hector into the concrete, Hector squeezed with his legs and arms while his powerful fingers dug and tore at the cladding between the PK’s helmet and breastplate.
His nails cracked and tore, but he kept at it, driving the middle finger of his left hand down into the rubbery gasket, pushing hard enough to fracture the bones, but oblivious to the pain or damage. When that single digit broke through, it felt like nirvana—a release of frustration and furious intent that did nothing but encourage the berserker in his quest for blood.
By then, Logan had realized his mistake: he’d given up control when he’d sought to smash Hector’s life out. His armor, bulky as it was, made it hard enough to stand from a prone position, but with Hector’s full mass firmly attached to his shoulders, he couldn’t right himself. Still, he thrashed, ripping Hector’s flesh and breaking his bones.
Even if he knew a way up, a way to regain control, everything happened too quickly. Hector had aura for seven seconds of Berserker—a few breaths for the average observer, but to Hector, his mind sped up by the raging aura fire coursing through it, it felt like an eternity with which he could methodically break through the rubbery material at the PK’s throat. He dug his fingers through and grasped onto just a few square centimeters of stubbled flesh.
When Hector’s fingers finally touched bare skin, the sensation cut through the blood-drenched haze of murder in his mind. A small, thinking part of him woke up, and he knew what he had to do: aura drain. As the crimson fury faded from his eyes, a new light erupted—more amber than red—and Logan’s latent potentia flooded into Hector.
The PK convulsed; his bucking, thrashing efforts to remove the fighter from his back went into a brief, frenzied overdrive, but then he grew listless and the servos in the joints of his armor whirred more lazily as his arms flopped this way and that.
Meanwhile, the rush of potentia clarified Hector’s thoughts, fully ridding him of the berserker. Even as the hot, healing aura fled his pathways and the pain of his tortured body crashed down on him, he maintained his grip. He squeezed tighter, knowing the sudden euphoria of a drain might make him relax. He drove his fingers—three of them—into the hole he’d clawed open, ensuring he didn’t lose his contact with Logan’s flesh, and he rode out the PK’s last, violent thrashing.
//8 potentia gathered. Potentia available: 55.//
As Logan’s arms went limp and thudded against the concrete, Hector hissed through bloody lips, “Feel that, PK scum?”
Logan’s reply, garbled and static-laced, came through the grille of his helmet. “W-what…”
Bastard doesn’t know what I did to him. Hector bore down, driving his bloody fingers hard against the sandpapery flesh under Logan’s chin, then he triggered his aura system again. Logan shook, his body quivering as his armored heels vibrated against the concrete.
//1 potentia gathered. Potentia available: 56.//
“You could have let her live,” Hector growled, spitting blood on the side of Logan’s helmet. Then, he triggered his system again.
//Less than 1 potentia gathered. Potentia available: 56.//
The PK twitched, and Hector heard his ragged breaths halt. Something whined in the chest plate and Hector scrambled free, sliding painfully away on the concrete as Logan’s armor attempted to jolt his heart back into motion. The man’s body convulsed, back arching, but when he fell back down, he didn’t stir. The armor whined again, and Hector knew that if Logan hadn’t disabled his watchdog AI, it would be calling for help.
“You did, though, didn’t you?” He growled, pushing himself onto his hands and knees. “Disable it?”
In answer, the PK convulsed again, his armor desperately trying to restart his heart. He thought maybe it worked because a soft wheeze came through the helmet grille and the armor stopped trying to shock him. Hector stood and limped over to the locked storage box and the PK’s blaster—both on the ground where Hector had leaped onto his back. He picked up the blaster, wincing at the weight as it pulled on his damaged shoulder.
Carrying it back to the downed PK, he positioned the barrel under Logan’s chin. Then he lifted his armor-clad hand, manipulating his listless fingers to wrap them around the weapon’s grip. He pushed Logan’s stubby, armored finger into the trigger guard, then hissed, “See you in hell,” and yanked it down. The blaster whined, the barrel lit up with a baleful red glow, and then a ball of plasma erupted.
Maybe Logan’s armor would have dispersed the charge—enough so it wouldn’t be fatal—but the damage Hector had done to the seal was enough for the bolt of liquid electricity to get a foothold. It ripped through the seal, melting the flesh of Logan’s neck and cooking its way inward—boiling meat, bone, and gray matter inside the dark alloy helm. Satisfied that there was no coming back from that, Hector stood with a groan, unable to fully straighten his back.
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If Logan hadn’t acted alone, he figured he had mere minutes before someone came to finish the job. Not gonna happen. Evie, is a jammer active?
//I don’t have net access, but I assumed it was interference from the concrete.//
Nah, this guy wanted to bury his mess here. He didn’t want to chance we’d get a message out.
As he articulated the thought, Hector’s gaze fell guiltily on Britt’s remains. Someone squeezed a fist around his heart, and his breath hitched in his throat for a second. “Pointless,” he whispered, and his heart began to thud again. For some reason, he dragged Britt’s two halves together and folded her arms over her torso, as though hiding the plasma scar, the crude affront to her dignity. He fell to his knees beside her and stared for a long time at her pale face.
Hector tried to imagine how things would have gone for her if he’d never come to Redwick Station. He didn’t think she would have lasted too long—not with wolves like Logan and Tacitianus circling. The magistrate would have eventually tortured her for the location of Paul’s stash. He wouldn’t have let her live after that. Alternatively, if she’d pursued her vengeance, maybe using the dirty PK, she probably would have ended up in a similar position. None of that made Hector feel any better.
He knelt there, trying to find the emotion to feel properly what had happened to Britt—in some twisted way, a sister he’d never known. Maybe that thought triggered something that woke inside him, something that he’d buried away. Memories of violent conflicts, of bodies torn by weapons dreamed up by humanity’s darkest imaginings, and of survivors huddled around crude graves. He pressed his hand onto Britt’s chest, his palm over her heart, and, unbidden, the Invicti Last Muster came to his lips:
“Your story isn’t finished.
We carry your deeds.
They’ll sound in our warcry.
And when we meet our last battle, you’ll stand beside us.”
After another moment’s pause, he cleared his throat and stood, looking around the abandoned concrete tube. His eyes settled on the dead peacekeeper, and he muttered, “How’d you sneak up on us?” He knew the answer before he asked; it was the armor—active camo. He must have followed them up the trail. The thought brought to mind his earlier paranoia. Should have trusted my gut.
It probably meant the PK had a vehicle down by the road, though, which was a loose end that might guide someone to the scene of the battle, which, in turn, might guide them to Hector. He’d need to get rid of it. He walked over to Logan’s corpse, grimacing at the stench of charred flesh as he leaned over the man’s helmeted head. Grunting with displeasure, he wriggled the ruined helmet until he found the interior catch and loosened it. He pulled it off, releasing a small tide of fluid and steam. He dropped it, then examined Logan’s face.
To his surprise, it was mostly untouched by the plasma shot. Both eyes were closed, and the left one was oozing viscous fluid, but when Hector lifted the other eyelid, the orb was intact. Get a good scan of his retina.
//Hold still.// The world brightened as Evie maxed out the gain on Hector’s retinal implant, zooming in on Logan’s eye so she could attempt to copy his retinal image. //It’s partial, but I think it’ll be enough.//
As his vision returned to normal, Hector took a few steps and then stooped to pick up the sealed container—the source of the whole bloody mess. Straightening, he looked at Britt’s body again, and another wave of guilt washed over him as he realized he’d be leaving her there, entombed with the asshole who’d killed her.
He shook his head, then turned to Logan’s corpse. “She’s gone. You can rot here and haunt this hole.” With that, he turned and strode to the exit. He paused along the way to pick up the padlock he’d tossed into a scrap barrel, then, outside, he chained and locked the door shut.
Still jammed?
//No. If there was a jammer, it was likely a function of Logan’s peacekeeper armor.//
Hector nodded, retracing his and Britt’s earlier steps, the metal case clutched in one fist, the one with all its fingers still working. As he walked, he was surprised when Evie spoke up, or more accurately, he was surprised by what she said:
//I’m sorry about Britt, Hector. Her life was a tragedy.//
He pondered the words as he moved down the trail, scanning for any signs of his or Britt’s passage. The trail was stony, though, and for the most part, they’d used the big flat stones as a footpath. It wasn’t always tragic. She had good memories of Paul. She might have found happiness if she’d slipped town—or if he never stole from Tacitianus. He jostled the metal case he held in his left hand in illustration.
Evie surprised him again. //Don’t blame her for the actions of bad men.//
Hector frowned. I’m not blaming her. I’m just trying to organize my thoughts around this damn mess. I wish I’d gotten her out of it, but I failed. That what you want to hear?
//No, I…// Hector arched an eyebrow. Had Evie ever been lost for words before? //I think I’m just feeling defensive for her. This mess is on Paul and on the men who carried out violence against her. Britt might have wanted to see justice, but that didn’t make her culpable.//
Nodding, Hector jumped a stretch of dirt, landing on a large flat stone and then started down the last stretch of trail. He could see Britt’s car below, and behind it, a sleek, dark-gray motorcycle. I’m with you, Evie. Trust me. She got a raw deal, and all I can say is that at least the assholes responsible—other than me—are dead.
He approached Britt’s car, but walked past it to the bike. It wasn’t a PK-issued vehicle; that much was clear. It seemed to be a labor of love—custom paint on the batt housing that looked like flames, fancy tires, and stabilizing gyros. The bike stood straight without a kickstand, and the soft hum of its motor told Hector it was in a standby state, waiting for its rider. He was sure Logan would have disabled any sort of location tracking on the bike; he wouldn’t have wanted any record of where he’d gone that morning.
Any chance we can send this thing home?
//Use your right eye to look into the biometric lock.//
Hector did as Evie suggested and, to his relief, the bike’s little crystal-glass HUD came to life.
//Now touch the navigation icon and find the home icon. You can—//
I got it from here, Evie. Hector worked through the menu, selected the bike’s home location, and then found the option to “return to base.” He stood back as it hummed into action, reversing before turning and motoring away, crunching faintly over the gravel road.
//I’ve reverted your retinal profile for identification purposes.//
Hector snorted, walking back to Britt’s car. That would have been just perfect—getting scanned by another PK while he wore Logan’s retinal print. Britt’s car was easier to get rolling; the doors weren’t locked, and, once he was inside, the simplistic navigation AI was wide open. Evie connected, directing the vehicle to the train station.
As it got moving, trundling over the rough road, Hector felt something grab onto his heart again, and his throat got thick as he swallowed. He blinked rapidly, looking out at the countryside and figured the feeling was just guilt. He was feeling dirty for taking Britt’s car—for surviving when she was lying back in that concrete tube, cold and lifeless.
Sighing, shaking his head, he picked up the metal case and turned it until the green-lit latch was on top. Gingerly holding his damaged fingers out straight, away from the thing, he hooked his pointer finger under the latch and pulled. Only a small amount of gas hissed out of the seal, which confirmed Hector’s suspicion that it had been opened before—surely by Paul when he inspected the case to find out what he’d stolen.
Hector opened the lid the rest of the way, revealing a gel-lined interior and, sitting like a prize-winning egg in the center, a perfect metallic sphere. It was small—about five centimeters in diameter—engraved with a lengthy sequence of tiny letters and numerals, and Hector had no damn idea what it was.