Forum Saradas
Female Muscle Art - Female Muscle Fiction => Muscular Women Fiction => Topic started by: Machao6 on September 13, 2019, 10:53:30 pm
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I decided to just get on and post what I've done on this.
It's a long one so it won't provide instant gratification. Hopefully its an entertaining read as well as pushing a few niche buttons.
Thank you to those who reviewed the exerpts I posted in another thread, which will be incorporated here in proper order.
* * * * * * * * * *
PART 1:
Hamish Westerley found himself in a remote country estate far from the front lines. He had been summoned there by Divisional Command for some sort of special assignment. Here in the heartland of Argon, it was almost possible to forget the total war status, but even in this rural setting the trappings of a nation at war were obvious. Defences and sandbag bunkers, flags, bugles, trucks and troops rumbling by. Inside the estate the furnishings were lush - dark mahogany and varnish everywhere, red leather chairs with tall backs, libraries and studies.
“Frankly Hamish I can’t think of anyone more capable. You’ve shown a good understanding of the big picture and your small unit command is exemplary. I appreciate that the mission is a little...unorthodox, but we just don’t have the manpower to reconnoitre in force.”
The speaker was General Haig. He and Hamish’s regimental commander, Colonel Finch, were taking a long time to order him on a suicide mission. The younger man sighed before recounting his orders. “So I’m to take a section, by plane, two thousand miles south of us to investigate rumours that the Larinthians are pouring materiel into the Fanteran jungle. And do what about it, exactly? There’s no airstrip, so we can’t be extracted by the same means. We’ll have no support.”
“That’s not strictly true...” Haig said, crooking a finger toward the door. A short, bald man with spectacles and a grey suit walked in, his burgundy tie standing out despite its blended tone. He smiled pleasantly and extended a hand, which Hamish took carelessly. The man was followed by a tall woman of intimidating beauty, sharp and coordinated appearance. A bun of black hair and thin-rimmed glasses gave her an almost clichéd secretarial look. She did not extend a hand but nodded curtly. “This is Dr Edgar Weismann, and this is Dr Athena. They are specialists from House Cryer.”
Hamish immediately regretted shaking hands. Most of the stories were from before his time, but the story went that House Cryer was one of the Larinthian member states – nations that pledged allegiance to the Shah in return for peace and prosperity. They gave willingly to the Larinthian war effort, and each of the houses was notable for a very specific technological focus. House Cryer, for example, specialised in mental conditioning and psychological warfare. Their soldiers committed famous atrocities for the Larinthians and were rumoured to be fearless and suicidally obedient. There was even talk that they looked the same. Coming face to face with even former members of that state was an unpleasant experience. The well-meaning grin on the little bald man’s face took on a sinister self-satisfaction.
“The General here has told me of your exploits, Mr Westerly. It will be an honour to travel with such distinguished company.” Weismann said, looking up at Hamish over the rim of his glasses like a mischievous gnome. “I think we will find a great deal to discuss on the journey, to the advantage of us both.”
Hamish looked from one to the other. “Begging your pardon, but are you deserters from Larinth?”
General Haig shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat, but the woman answered before he could intercede. “Yes. Larinthian persecution of political rivals has led us to pursue our research here in your country. Our intelligence has informed defensive operations in a number of cities, and details of certain emergent techniques have already been shared with your government. Now we turn our hand to helping you understand a subject that we, and the Larinthian Empire, are greatly interested in.”
“And what is that, exactly? The Jungle?” The soldier asked petulantly.
“Yes. More specifically, the people who live there.”
Hamish narrowed his eyes. It was widely understood that the Fanteran jungles were too dense to map properly, and too dangerous to explore. While they were certainly large enough to accommodate a population or perhaps even conceal one, the chances of anyone living there were always thought to be remote. Rumours ran rife about the place – mythical beasts, man eating plants, tribes of warrior women, cannibalistic or beast-like. Giants. Many-limbed men. No one knew where the rumours came from. Some intrepid explorers claimed to have stepped foot in there and seen a few things for themselves. The army had conducted several flights and investigations, but most were poorly regarded. Or never returned.
Taking advantage of his rumination, Colonel Finch spoke up. “There’s a war on in that jungle, Hamish, and we want to know who’s fighting the Larinthians and how we can help each other. That’s what this mission is really about.”
“And you think these people are friendly to us?” Hamish asked sceptically.
“Quite so. The enemy of our enemy, and so on.” Weismann answered. “In fact, Dr Athena and I have collated a great deal of information which I believe will convince you of our purpose.” The short man raised his briefcase onto the table top and flicked it open. He raised a few sheets with typed minutes on them, and extracted a thin dossier and offered it to Hamish, who accepted it like a notice of dismissal.
Leafing through the pages, he surmised that the two had researched the existence and activities of a defunct noble house, House Fantera. Supposedly this house accepted the Larinthian coin but used it to bankroll their own strange agenda, which involved a scientific quest to artificially create perfect life – perfect soldiers, perfect servants, perfect women and men. A shortlist of examples included an account by a Larinthian Trueblood who claimed as few as five "She-Devils" laid waste to a mechanised infantry platoon with their bare hands, overturning armoured vehicles and slinging men into the air. Another referenced autopsy notes - presumably performed by Weismann - on an anthropoid subject twelve feet tall with no reproductive apperatus and one of the hardiest metabolic systems ever documented, with dermal layers two inches thick.
As Hamish read he scoffed aloud, but some of what was uncovered was at least supported by the myths attributed to the region. Apparently when the Larinthians found out that the House had plans of their own, a schism broke them apart. Some renewed their pledges of fealty to the Shah and moved to the Larinthian mainland. Those who stayed on their island home in the Midling Sea were set upon by the might of the Empire, and before long their fortress-laboratories defended by superhuman guardians were destroyed. From the research in the two Doctors’ dossier, they believed that some members of House Fantera fled to or had already hidden subcells in the jungle before their inevitable demise.
“While this makes for interesting reading, this is still work for a civilian institution, not the army. Why waste fighting men when we need them here?”
“The truth is this, Hamish,” General Haig said firmly “we can’t keep this up. If we keep fighting symmetrically, our great nation will be defeated in a year or two at the most. If we fall, the Alliance falls, and the Larinthians will rule all of Somerwald. We have to explore every possibility that could give us an edge. Superhuman soldiers? Rebel Houses within the Larinthian Empire? A massive diversion of enemy forces into that Jungle? Maybe it is fantasy. But what if it isn’t, eh?”
Dr Athena piped up again with her clinical tone. “Even if we only discover fragments of their work, we can study them in order to...”
“From what I read here, the benefit would be that you get a cheat-sheet to rewriting life. That sounds grand and all, but here in the real world, real people are fighting and dying. You might still be wanting to obsolete the plain old human, but the time this mission will take has been paid for with blood. I’ll have no part of it. Find someone else, General.” Hamish turned on his heel and made to walk out of the office, but Athena stopped him with a hand on his arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
“Lieutenant. How much of that blood would have been spilled if you had access to the same resources, the same technology as the Larinthians?” The soldier glared at her indignantly. “The Larinthians fight as if they do not care for the lives of their subjects. It’s because they don’t – to them, levied troops are expendable. Think of it. House Mecane uses robots and machines. House Cryer uses cloning, drugs and psychotherapy to make mindless killers. House Fantera’s speciality was Eugenics. You will never defeat them without evening the score.”
“I’ll take my chances.” Hamish grunted.
“But will your country rest on your odds, Lieutenant?” This was doctor Weismann, advancing confidently on the Argonian despite having to look up at him. “You seem to think that perhaps there is some other way – that if you and your fellow soldiers fight hard enough, you can prevail. This is not so.”
Colonel Finch interjected. “Now Weismann, we agreed that there was no need to quote the odds to the Lieutenant here...”
“Oh you think this is unfair, Colonel? Mr Westerly has seen fit to demonstrate his limited understanding of our research and intended goal, so please allow me to show what I know of the war he is fighting. Tell me soldier – how long do you think it might be before the Larinthians stand in this very house?”
Hamish frowned, wondering if he should entertain the question, but found himself giving it serious consideration instead. “I’d say about nine months.”
“Wrong. You are basing that on the fighting you have seen – which has been bitter, and extensive no doubt. But against an inferior enemy who’s only real advantage is numbers, yes? You cannot imagine what enters your country behind that vanguard, what dire forces and weapons have yet to be confronted. I tell you that if the Larinthians’ current advance keeps up, they could be here in three months and your armies would be shattered in that time.”
Hamish looked furiously at his commanders, but they returned his gaze with sad, remorseful eyes. After all the pomp and ceremony of the recruitment camps, the drills and the propaganda, this admission from them felt like a grave betrayal. How many men had died on the false promise of preserving the nation?
“We leave tomorrow. The Colonel can tell you more about your unit for this mission.” The doctor smiled, knowing that the battle was won, and Hamish seethed quietly.
Colonel Finch smoothly resumed his briefing. "Naturally, radio contact will be vital for further reinforcement and supply..."
* * * * * * * * * *
In the hangar of a specially constructed airfield on the southernmost plains of Argon, Hamish met his team. Some twenty men faced him. Six wore the familiar flight suits of Lexian air cavalry. Ten wore the uniforms of the Defence Force, like himself. He recognised Drs Weismann and Athena, now dressed in fitted combat fatigues with a camouflage pattern he didn’t recognise. One, a boy in a jumpsuit with Dafnese insignia, leaned against a tall suit of powered armour. And he was the twentieth, the officer commanding.
He greeted the men, trying to put names to faces. They were broken soldiers from their personnel files, veterans all. They had something in common – each had lost their reason to fight. Most hailed from regional militias who’s units had been wiped out, meaning they had lost friends and families in combat. Some had seen their hometowns and livelihoods ruined. A couple were here instead of facing disciplinary charges, including the squad sergeant, Harker. He would be trouble – in a rare offensive campaign, his unit successfully rolled back Larinthian occupations of three towns, but instead of liberating them, Harker regarded the populations as collaborators and took to raping and pillaging. This mission was his alternative to a firing squad. It didn’t bode well for their chances.
He came face to face with the pilots of his aircraft, and of the escorts. One, a lank man with a thin beard and delicate glasses, stepped forward as the flight leader. “Wally Gardener, at your service.” He said, extending a hand. “Echo flight will be responsible for seeing you safely to your drop zone. These men have flown with me through fourteen sorties – the journey should be a cakewalk.”
Hamish took the offered hand. “Looks like this is all just routine to you. I’ve never jumped out of an aeroplane before.”
“Really?” Gardener looked astonished. To Lexians, the air was the road. “Well...I’m sure you’ll love it. To be honest I’m not sure why they don’t just use Lexian drop troopers. It’d save time in training.”
“Support.” Declared the boy with the powered suit, confidently. The two officers turned on him in unison and he bit his lip nervously. After a moment of tense silence, he continued as if to justify his interruption. “The Argonians are trained to live off the land, coming from a largely agricultural background. The Jungle will be confusing, but no problem for them to adapt to. A Lexian unit would not be reliable without proper support, they’d starve or get lost too easily.”
Hamish and Walliam stared at the boy for a moment before turning back to each other. “Well, there we have it then!” Gardener shrugged. “I’ll leave the ground op to you; it’s what you’re here for. If you need to consult with me about anything to do with the air, let me know.”
“There is something I’d like to know right now.” Hamish admitted, before Gardener could turn away “Do your fighters have enough fuel to go all the way to the drop zone?”
Walliam laughed and crossed to one of his Sparrowhawks. He slapped a fat bulbous tank underneath that Hamish had assumed was a bomb. “Fuel tanks! These are long-range fighter bombers, but with no ground attack payload, we can use the extra haul to carry more fuel. They’re less agile than a fighter but with double cover we should be able to make up for that. That’s why you get a full wing not just a flight.”
Hamish nodded with satisfaction, then crossed next to the boy. “Corporal Milliard, I presume?”
“That’s me sir. 129th Armoured Reconnaissance group. And this is Natalya.” He patted the greyscale suit behind him which made a plastic slap with a metallic ring that echoed quietly in the hangar.
“If its quicker sir, you can call me Dexter.”
“You were talking about Support. What do we need Natalya for?”
“Oh, she’ll be useful in spades sir. There’s no way we can insert any armour or transport for this mission – powered armour is about the only thing that will navigate a jungle without any impediment to mobility, not to mention being air-portable. She can be loaded for fire support as well as sniping operations and she’s bulletproof to everything up to a 50mm shell. Direct, that is. Jump-capable, adaptive camouflage, enhanced sensor and optical equipment. I’ll be your eyes, ears, and left hook all in one.”
Hamish studied the suit in awe as the boy rattled on. It’s construction bewildered him – there was not a rivet to be seen. Seamless joins of metal-come-plastic, articulated armour, the suit was so...sleek. The Argonians had only been able to deploy clunky Redeemer armour which had none of the grace of this unit.
“I have a question.” Hamish declared, making the boy look up at him. “How long is her battery life, and how do we recharge her in the jungle?”
“Twelve hours, about the average time a unit will march on foot for, and much longer than we’d last in a jungle. I can power modules down to conserve energy and when moving, dynamos act as static accumulating generators to recharge the battery life. I can also stand it in water and deploy the hydroelectric jenny. We’ll need to find some of that anyway while we’re out there.”
The boy finished, not triumphantly, but earnestly. As if waiting for approval. Hamish frowned at him instead. “How old are you?”
"Old enough."
“Why are you here?”
His expression dropped. “There’s only one recruit in the 129th sir. Everyone else was killed when the training ground was attacked in ’42. I guess the Yeomanry couldn’t spare anyone else, they don’t know what to do with me. I – I mean, Natalya – suit the job down to a tee, sir. If you’ll excuse the pun.”
Hamish laughed and held out his hand. “I’m game if you are, kid. Glad to have you. But who’s going to fix this thing if it breaks?”
“I will, sir. The 129th has no support elements. We’re trained for independent action. All the spares and tools I need are compartmentalised. We only have to worry if I lose a leg or something.”
“Ok. Don’t break a leg, then.” Hamish moved on.
The men in his unit should have been reliable by their records, but their faces told a different story. They were morose, scared, resigned. Hardly a fighting spirit. A couple were downright dangerous, survivors driven psychotic by their experiences. He divided them into two teams – a rifle squad, and an assault squad. The maniacs were in the assault element, led by Sergeant Harker. The team leader was a giant, bald man with a ginger beard and a vile disposition. He had small, malicious eyes that sat beneath a heavy brow and seemed to hold everything they regarded in contempt. He had already asserted himself over the squad though. Hamish detected the unspoken deference, military cohesion. “Are you ready, Sergeant?”
“Ready and waiting, Lieutenant.” It wasn’t the deference Hamish had been expecting.
“I have no idea what we’ll find in that jungle. Maybe nothing. But all of these men have lost everything. I hope you all get something out of this.”
“I intend to, sir.”
Hamish nodded unconvincingly and ended his tour in front of the Cryer defectors.
Weisman nodded cordially, while Athena kept a conservative distance and stared straight ahead.
“Good to see you again, Lieutenant. Myself and Athena will be acting as your guides once we are in the jungle. So long as we can triangulate our position using familiar landmarks, we’re confident we can pinpoint several areas of interest.”
Hamish couldn’t resist. “Let’s hope so. I wouldn’t want this to be complete waste of time.”
Athena’s eyes flicked down to peer at him angrily, but before anything else could be said Hamish felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Colonel Finch.
“There’s some fifty others involved in this operation who you won’t be able to meet, I’m afraid. Commander Nathan Fisk of the Royal Myrmadon Navy will be overseeing the extraction of you and your team, via river. Dr Weismann has all the coordinates.”
“Well, can I have them?” Hamish hissed vehemently, conscious that his men might hear. Weismann cleared his throat as if concealing his amusement and Hamish rounded on him furiously, until the staff officer got between them.
“Hamish, it seemed natural to let him coordinate things because he’s already been going over topographical data with a fine tooth comb. Besides, given the nature of the expedition its important that certain key figures retain a monopoly of the information on the extraction to avoid any...internal confrontations.”
“You mean to stop me shooting them both and leaving them in the jungle, mission failed?”
“The suggestion was all mine, Lieutenant. I am no stranger to the workings of a soldiers mind. You still believe our mission has no value – but this is well and good. All you have to do is obey your orders. Leave the extraction to us, all will be well.”
Hamish glared from Weisman to Finch. “Will it really?” He demanded, rhetorically.
The little man raised a hand disarmingly. "Lieutenant, there is no need to make your case any further. We are aware of one another's predilections. Permit me to demonstrate some usefulness in your own pragmatic forms."
Weismann clicked his fingers and Athena produced a heavy-looking briefcase, sweeping it up and open for display. Inside were heavily-cushioned hypodermic needles filled with different clear fluid. He selected one from the nearest end of the row and tested it against the hangar lights. "You expect me to...?"
"Innoculations" Weismann stated matter-of-factly. "The jungle is home to many perils not known in this country. This immuno-booster will fortify you against most forms of infection, illness and certain acids and poisons to be found there. There are no side-effects unless you have a very particular vulnerability to certain proteins."
"Everyone gets one." Colonel Finch declared, settling the matter. Hamish grudgingly rolled up a sleeve, noting the doctor's gentle touch. For his manner, the little bald man seemed to love what he did, and doing something so demonstrative - sharing his skill for all to see - was clearly enjoyable. One or two of Hamish's party needed to be talked into receiving the jabs, but most took them without complaint. Nobody wanted the ignominy of dying from something as mundane as a poison frog out there.
The unit conducted only two test drops to familiarise the men with airborne operations. Young Milliard came out the best of the prospective paratroopers, his suit’s jump jets acting as an efficient cushion to a landing even from thousands of feet up. Hamish didn’t like the drift of the parachutes and was concerned about the unit scattering into a thick jungle with no real means of communicating – but Weisman indicated good supplies of flares and coloured smoke to circumvent these problems. Everything seemed to have a smooth answer, but he felt like he and all of these ‘volunteers’ were being taken for idiots. As he sat in the plane during its take off, awaiting the moment of destiny, he reflected that only an idiot would be doing this job.
* * * * * * * * * * *
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PART 2:
The Walrus shook and rattled in the air for two hours. Hamish was sure that no plane journey was supposed to feel the same as an off road race. To the Argonians who had never been in a plane before this mission, every bump and shake was a terror. Dexter had encased himself in Natalya in preparation for the jump, performing last-minute diagnostics. Sergeant Harker sat sharpening his knife, every harsh ring ravaging the nerves of the men around him.
“I think its sharp enough now, Sergeant. Keep that up and you’ll lose the length of it.” Hamish warned him. In response the sergeant locked eyes with him, and maintained his glare until the knife was safely in its sheath. Then he busied himself with checking cartridges for his machinegun.
Other men were similarly preoccupied. Most were rechecking their weapons, testing the mechanisms and applying last minute oil to guarantee slick action. A few were eating energy bars with shaking hands and laboured chewing. One was shining his boots. Weismann and Athena sat next to each other, leaning in to review notes and maps conspiratorially. Westerly rose and stretched his stiff legs, and some of the men looked up at him expectantly. He hated the dread anticipation in their faces. He walked down the fuselage of the great transport and looked over his men. He offered a match to a man who couldn’t get his lighter to catch, ignoring the “No smoking” signs above their heads. One of the younger soldiers was praying, and he tapped his helmet.
“No one’s going to save you, but you. Focus, and prepare.” The boy took a deep breath as Harker sniggered behind them. “Check your weapons.” Hamish left him with that task and moved on down the line. He stopped another boy from ‘checking’ his grenades. Finally he stood before Weismann and his beautiful assistant, who seemed to tower over him now they were sat together. They looked up at him, Athena with a scowl, and Weismann with an implacable smile.
“Soon you will learn the value of our research, eh Lieutenant?” He greeted Hamish. The glint of the cabin lights in his spectacles formed a protective visor, through which the officer was unable to glare.
He looked away instead. “I hope so. This will be terrible waste of life otherwise.”
“No life is wasted, dear soldier! As I said before, if we can unearth but a portion of the scientific treasure lost in the jungle, the tide of the war can be turned.” The scientist gestured with one hand, slowly running it across an imaginary surface, perhaps a world of his own. Hamish stared at him levelly.
“I never asked: what are you doctors of?”
“Genetic Engineering. And Athena is Doctor of Superbiology.”
“Super biology?” The officer asked, turning his sceptical gaze to the statuesque raven who looked back at him defiantly.
“Pushing the boundaries of life, Lieutenant. It requires a certain open mindedness that you do not exhibit. You can train your body so that it functions better when it needs to, but you will never surpass the limitations of your biology. We work to destroy those barriers.”
“Well, that sounds terrific. But meanwhile, can you tell us anything about what we might expect down there in the jungle? I have to keep you safe, unfortunately, and that requires a certain grounded realism you do not exhibit.”
Weismann shrugged cheerfully, but Athena spoke. “Nothing we can say will prepare you for what is down there.” Hamish met her fierce eye and was about to demand an explanation, but the aircraft banked suddenly and staggered him. Something whooshed past the plane outside and Hamish assumed they were under surface-to-air attack.
“Prepare for debarkation!” He screamed above the shuddering din of the cabin. There were guns now and he could hear the somewhat familiar sound of the Sparrowhawks gunning their engines.
His men fell about themselves and some sprawled onto the floor as the plane jinked sharply. A burst of gunfire pierced the fuselage and struck a bloody line down his men, felling three. While they screamed, others ran for the gun ports and returned fire as best they could. From what Hamish could tell however, their targets were way too fast. As Goreman and Stippler hammered away, other men were struggling to staunch the bleeding of the wounded. The plane banked sharply again, this time the other way, and he heard the stuttering sound of machineguns ripping past and the metallic pangs of bullets striking the fuselage, but this time nothing came through.
The oppressive scream of jet engines startled everyone on board and some men threw themselves flat, expecting the plane to disintegrate at any moment. But it was the mere passing of their invisible assailants. No sooner had the men picked themselves up, but another burst of gunfire tore its way through Goreman, severing an arm and detonating his head in a wash of gore. As the blood ran down his face Hamish stared aghast, only to be staggered again as the plane bucked and jerked, then went ominously calm and started to list to one side.
“Fire in the Starboard engines! Get outta there!” The pilot screamed. The men were panicking in the fuselage, clambering to get past each other. Hamish turned for the door and saw that Athena was already opening it, the little doctor literally joined at the hip as a kangaroo cub before her. He watched as they jumped together, then scrambled for it himself. Another enemy raked the fuselage and more of his men were hit. There was no more time.
“Bail!”
* * * * * * * * *
HAMISH’S FALL:
Hamish jumped for his life, cursing as he realised just how low the plane was. His chute opened more suddenly than he had been expecting, jerking him back into the air. The Walrus trundled above and past him on one engine and he watched it trailing smoke and fire as other chutes began to open, each lower than the last. As far as his eyes could see lay an undulating carpet of exotic trees, although on his right was an immense wall of mountains that perforated the sky. The breathtaking view and the strange sensation of weightlessness almost made him forget his circumstances, but he caught sight of the plumes of smoke rising from the jungle where their escorts had been felled. He watched the last of them trailing smoke, descending with reluctance, before dropping out of view into a valley. There was no explosion as he had been expecting.
Around him the tearing rush of jets came and went, but it was only when he found the Walrus making its inevitable descent that he actually spotted one of their enemies. Strange dartlike shapes, small but menacing, moved quickly in perfect formation. He looked on as four of them followed the Walrus, harrying it until its second engine went up in flames, then it banked defiantly round again as if to prolong its own suffering. Presumably pilotless, or at the very least beyond control, the giant aircraft spiralled into the trees and cartwheeled on its nose, severing a wing before exploding and shattering the air. All he could do now was wait for the ground to meet him.
He tried to count the number of parachutes. The lowest had already disappeared behind him somewhere, presumably Weismann and Athena's. There had been no contingency for an air attack and the subsequent separation. Perhaps they would use flares to mark their position? Ahead and above him were a handful of other chutes, but he couldn’t see who dangled from them. He could hear the distant crack of jets and noted they were getting nearer – looking around, he realised to his horror that the darts were returning. They made a beeline directly for the highest chute and cut straight through it, severing the ropes. The scream of the soldier was shrill, as if he passed adjacent to the officer in the air. There was no thud when the man hit the bottom, only abrupt silence. Hamish frantically tried to locate the enemy drones and realised that even with their speed, he would probably hit the treeline before they could make another pass. But what about his men? What could he possibly do to save them?
He cursed himself for feeling safe as he heard the familiar hammering of guns and another of his men screamed as they were torn up by the deluge. The victim shuddered bloodily and then hung, totally limp in his harness, as if from a gallows. The drones adjusted imperceptibly to target the next man and before long Hamish was down to just four men and himself. He could hear sergeant Hawker swearing at the drones as they burned round in a wide arc to strafe their next victim, but that was the last contact he would have with his men.
The jungle rushed toward him and his feet punched through the thick canopy. Immediately his legs caught on a branch and he swung over so that his head was pointing downwards. He smashed through a thin branch before colliding with a main that stopped him dead in his tracks, where he hung, winded, until the parachute dragged him off and down again. He was the right way up now but smashing through branches that caught and clawed at him, sending him at an odd angle toward the ground. Eventually the chute was seized by the branches above, leaving him dangling in the air a good twenty feet up.
Winded, dazed and feeling horribly exposed, Hamish tried to swing for a nearby branch. It was too distant, leaving him nauseous as he hung helplessly in the air. He tried to gauge the drop and decided that if he landed well there was no reason he couldn’t make it. The ground was soft earth by the look of it, rich with undergrowth. Fumbling with his release catch availed him nothing. He froze when he heard sharp voices echoing through the jungle. He listened a while longer and heard two shots. The jungle was unfriendly. Taking his knife to the harness, Hamish sawed feverishly until with a snap he fell straight to the floor, landing almost upright and crushing his left ankle. He had to clamp a hand over his mouth to muffle his scream. For a moment he had to wait for the pain to subside, until he realised it only hurt when he rested any weight on it. Using his rifle as a crutch, he forced himself to stand, staggering against the tree. He vomited. As the first pangs of despair started to gnaw at his mind, he heard the voices again, getting louder. Still using his rifle as a surrogate foot, he hobbled away into the bushes.
His course took him slightly uphill, and looking back on his landing site, he decided a thorny rodidendrum bush offered a concealed vantage point. He fell into the bush, quite conspicuously, and lined up his rifle with the tree his parachute had been caught in. Then he waited tensely, until the voices got louder and clearer and four Larinthian soldiers stepped into view. The gold on their distinctive pyramidal helmets glistened even under the canopy of the jungle. So the rumours were not only true, but the enemy were further along than anyone had indicated. Here, in the middle of this vast expanse of tropical fauna, they emerged like roaches grubbing for his carcass. They noted his parachute harness and seemed to discuss his whereabouts for a few minutes, before proceeding to search the area in a circular pattern.
If they had been even remotely experienced they would have noted the clear indications left by his passing – the disturbed earth leading right to his position. Instead, they kept their eyes off the ground and on the trees instead, as if expecting him to have leapt from one to another. He waited while they spread out, moving in a loose group either side of him. Eventually they had moved on and he ventured out of the bushes and back the way his pursuers had come from. The jungle was incredibly diverse but vague pathways led him to a muddy road, dampened by a trickling stream alongside. The road seemed to be circumnavigating a hillside. On the other side the land fell away sharply into a steep embankment, down toward a proper river with a strong current. Hamish caught sight of another parachute draped over a spiky bush, but the body alongside was unmoving and bloodied.
As he squinted to try and recognise the corpse, a light thud in the ground behind him caused him to turn where he saw three lithe women crouched on the ground, eyeing him with intent. Each had an identical neck-height bob of raven black hair. They carried wicked looking knives and crossbows and wore very little, baring bronzed, toned limbs. What little clothing they wore was tribalistic or ornamental, Larinthian gold fittings and patterning. The girls braced themselves. Threatened, Hamish raised his rifle to hip height, and then they made their move. One moved to each side, so quickly he didn’t know which to track. While he dithered, the third simply shot him with her crossbow. The force of the bolt carried him back over the edge and cast him down the hillside.
He was dimly aware of falling, of motion. Of pain, distant but overwhelming, like watching a tide sweep across a beach he wasn’t standing on. Then he was only aware of numbness and the warm damp of his own blood saturating his shoulder. After a stunned moment of serene quiet, he stared up at the looming trees to see his three nemeses approaching. The one who shot him pointed her crossbow at his chest and smiled. The other two searched him.
Something was very wrong. The pain had dulled to a kind of ebb but he lacked the strength even to raise an arm, to say a word. He could only lie there, comfortably numb, as they took his pistol, grenades, rations and aid kit. Lastly they took his trench knife and held it to his throat, but something startled them and they ran off. Hamish’s last thought was that no one would know he was dead out here, as he faded into unconsciousness.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
-
PART 3: (bit cringeworthy but I wrote this when I was about fifteen. Edits have only improved the scene setting I'm afraid!)
Hamish dreamt of pain. He first dreamt that his parachute failed when he jumped out of the plane, sending him hurtling to smack against a rocky riverbed hundreds of meters below. He awoke with a start, and then agony. He was being carried. A woman’s voice offered him comfort. He passed out again quickly, as if to escape the searing pain in his shoulder.
Next he dreamt he was being chased through the jungle. Around him men – his men – were being executed in little clearings as if specially prepared and exhibited for that purpose. But all he could do was run on, pathetically, as angry enemies chased him with guns and knives. He ran to a cliff face and turned about, where a pack of gargantuan dogs were slavering and baring their teeth at him. One lunged for his throat and mauled him horribly. He awoke again, this time to a blurry sight of two people looking at him in a room with flickering lights. One had red hair. Both were female, he heard their soft voices soothing him. A hand touched his forehead, and he splashed back into sleep.
Lastly Hamish dreamed that he was face to face with the girl that had shot him again. He saw the gold bangles on her arms and ankles, their sheen offset by her olive skin. Sharp green eyes size him up malevolently, and although she moved in slow motion he felt himself inexplicably paralysed. At his hesitation she smirked and raised her crossbow. As Hamish opened his mouth to speak, she shot him with her crossbow, in the left shoulder. He could hear the sound with crystal clarity, and felt the pain acutely enough to scream himself awake.
As he leaped forward out of sleep, he was caught and held in a fierce kiss that stifled his noise. The pain in his shoulder was very real, real enough to make him moan helplessly into her mouth. Fear began to rise, cold and dreadful. Sensations in mind and body were at conflict. She kissed him so intensely that he feared he might pass out, until the pain dulled to an ever-present ebb. When he stopped resisting, he was gently, reluctantly, released. Strong limbs guided him to the bed again, and his rescuer was straddling him.
She was breathtakingly beautiful, and wearing nothing but a hunter green bikini made from some sort of animal hide. Her well-proportioned body rippled with sleek, toned muscle. Enormous breasts yearned beneath a creaking leather halter that seemed tired of its constant labour. Flames of red hair singed her shoulders. Her generous lips were parted with concentration, energetic blue eyes fixed on him. The girl leaned forward and cradled his head affectionately. Hamish could only snatch a few deprived gasps of air, and stare up at her in disbelief. Another dream, surely? She raised a finger to her lips and went in to kiss him again. He was too stunned to resist. This time her ministrations were soft and delicate. In a span of twenty four hours, he had experienced a range of human emotions he had never felt so intensely. Terror. Pain. Dumbfounded confusion. And now, the weeping relief of affection.
The girl’s giant eyes, so close to his, seemed to widen in surprise before she parted their kiss. “Am I hurting you?” She whispered, abruptly.
Hamish heard the words but had to struggle to make sense of them. “No...” he croaked feebly.
“But you’re crying...” she reported, as her thumbs carefully collected his tears. Hamish breathed deliberately, trying to force his mind to cooperate, to catch up.
“I...I thought I was dead.”
"No, only dreaming. You have terrible nightmares. But you’re safe now, I’ll protect you.” The girl planted a kiss like a blessing upon his forehead before laying down beside him, controlling his gaze with her gentle hands. She wriggled closer. It was a thrilling sensation to feel the warmth of her firm, powerful body. Though the sensation of his body against hers was encouraging, he couldn’t help but feel awkward. She sensed it, and Hamish offered no resistance as his head was pulled down onto her shoulder. He was now encased in her arms and, in that intimate seclusion, his body finally allowed him to relax. His hands dithered, fearful of touching this generous beauty, his saviour. He feebly rested them against her upper arms, feeling the smooth lines of her muscles as she ran her hands across his back soothingly.
“Put your arms around me,” she whispered. Hamish obliged, tentatively at first, then she rose to let his hand slide beneath her back and their embrace was sealed. They held each other for a long time, and Hamish felt relief wash through him as a dozen anxieties and questions were drowned out by a sense of perpetual comfort. He had no idea how long it had been since he landed in this place. He had no idea about anything. After what could have been hours, his thoughts finally stabilised and he mustered some presence of mind to seek answers. She took his head in her hands and raised him slightly so she could face him.
"Who are you?" He whispered in astonishment.
"I saved you." It wasn't really an answer, but he was too dazed to be vigilant. She was already continuing with more answers. “You’re in my village. It's called Kalena. I smuggled you in! It’s very important that nobody knows you’re here. So please don’t have any more nightmares.”
“I’ll try not to.” He assured with his eyes closed, unconvincingly. Wincing as he struggled to remember where he was, he groaned a question. “How far are we from where you found me?”
The girl’s eyes looked skyward as she estimated. “About fifteen miles. I was hunting a Gargasaur when I heard a great noise from the sky. Then there was fire, and Larinthians everywhere. I wanted to see what was happening – I watched people falling from the sky. I saw Lethys’ Daughters standing over your body and knew that Vitalia had given me a sign. It’s the only way I could have found you by accident like that.”
Hamish painfully recounted her answer to his original question. “Fifteen miles? How did you get me back here?”
She looked at him in bemusement. “I carried you, of course!”
The soldier’s head throbbed as it rejected the information. “What?”
“I carried you. How else would I have done it?”
He looked up at her, his vision blurry and his voice barely audible. “...you carried me fifteen miles?”
She scoffed. “I’ve never run so fast in my life. I thought they’d used Liktor venom on you. I was so scared you were going to die in my arms. When Sophitia told me you were going to be fine, I knew I had passed the test. I knew Vitalia was smiling on me.”
“You ran for fifteen miles carrying me?”
She laughed at his incredulous expression. “Yes! Is that such a big deal?"
“I’m sorry, where I come from that is an amazing feat. I have trouble running for one mile and I’m supposed to be fit enough to fight. I certainly couldn’t do it with a man on my shoulders.”
“Well of course not, you’re a scion!” She scolded him playfully. “You shouldn’t have to run or carry anything. That’s what you have me for.” Her beaming expression faltered as she noticed his confused blinking. “I’m sorry, Sophitia said you were from very far away. She also said there are no amazons where you come from, so I should have remembered that before opening my big mouth.”
The soldier rubbed his eyes tiredly. “That’s ok. Did she teach you the language as well?”
“Your language?” The girl bit her lip nervously. “Yeah, a long time ago. I recognised it as you talked in your sleep. I'm not butchering it, am I?”
“Not at all. I have so many questions...”
The girl started toward him as if worried he was about to leave. “Don’t worry about a thing. I promise I’ll explain everything in time. But for now you should rest.” She stroked his head with an anaesthetic touch. “Now, tell me how I can make you comfortable.”
Hamish considered all the tantalising ways she could do just that, but something was clawing at the back of his mind, a foreboding. There was so much unknown here, he had lost all sense of awareness, of time even. He rested his head on her broad shoulder and she squeezed warmly around him. “Would you mind if we stay like this for a while?”
His red-haired saviour beamed. “I was thinking the same thing...”
As Hamish lay awkwardly with the girl, he gained some impression of her height and build, which were both considerable. His feet were nowhere near hers and he was lying fully one head short of her, resting as he was on her shoulder. His hands were tucked beneath her broad shoulders. Though he felt awkward, the feel of her body was incredible - as if she were so powerful it emanated from her, carried by her warmth. "You're very tense..." She whispered into his ear, making him prickle with anxiety. "...Are you uncomfortable? Is something wrong?"
"No...well...yes...this feels wrong."
"Why?" The concern in her voice was almost melodramatic.
"I just...have a lot on my mind."
She made an understanding sigh and then rolled him over with a giggle. The fast movement made his head spin but she was so gentle about it as to never aggravate his wounds. She perched on top of him with her arms down on his chest, like a cat ready to pounce, pushing her boobs out in a gorgeous display between the sleek, bulging muscles of her arms. "I can help!"
She started to run her hands across his chest, deftly unlatching the toggles on his silk shirt with a playful grin. Hamish felt his entire body freeze and he became aware that he wasn't breathing. Noticing his hesitation she slipped her hands around his, pulling them up to her heaving bust - but the moment they touched he jerked back to life and withdrew his hands in a panic of gasping breaths. His reluctance caused her to recede like a frightened animal, hugging herself. Despite her shrinking demeanour she towered over him. "You don't want me..." she murmured.
"No, no, It's not that...I just don't think I can...I shouldn't be here..."
He spent a few moments trying to phrase what was rushing through his mind, but in the end it simply erupted in a cringing shower of tears. Hamish covered his face to hide his shame, but felt a careful strength prising it away to reveal that lovely, sympathetic face once more. "It's ok. I shouldn't have done that. I didn't mean to upset you. You only just woke up!"
He could only snivel and shake his head. After a few moments, he asked: "C-can you just hold me for a while?"
The girl nodded eagerly. She said nothing more, holding him tightly until the soldier was fast asleep.
* * * * * * *
He slept well with no painful images. When he awoke she was right there beneath him, dozing gently. The feint breeze of her breathing and the considerable rise and fall of her chest combined with the beating of her heart into a comfortable entrancement. He shifted his head as gently as possible to change the alignment of his neck, which had started to ache, but she must have been awake as her hand ghosted down the back of his head with a contented murmur.
"No nightmares." She declared sleepily.
"No." Hamish grinned shyly.
"Were you comfortable? I didn't want to move you in case I woke you."
"I think you're the best pillow I've ever had." The Argonian reluctantly sat up and stretched his neck. She helped him massage it. "Hey, that feels great."
"You weren't even on the best part..." the red haired woman tempted, shifting on the bed to apply herself fully to the massage. Hamish was silenced by the sensation. All too quickly though she retreated. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you fall back to sleep yet. I have to fetch us something to eat before its gone." She carefully extricated herself from behind him and climbed out of bed.
Viewing her at her proper height and from more of a distance gave him a new image of her dimensions. Fully six feet and taller, her body undulated with lean muscle and racy curves. Long legs, powerful legs rose to meet a waist that was slender by proportion. The sweeping line of her body held up sturdy shoulders and that indulgent bust that seemed to creak in its bikini with every breath. Her lovely face was framed by flaming hair and her deep, blue eyes avoided his thoughtfully. Though her body visibly shone with power, her stance was relaxed, and her lazy steps toward him gave her a sensual sway. Noticing his gaze, she smiled and turned to face him. "How long have I been here? Since you found me?" Hamish asked.
"This is the third night. You must be hungry. I tried to feed you some fruit but you just mumbled something and rolled over. They're cooking a boar outside, would you like some?" Hamish nodded seriously, making her laugh. "Wait here, then. I'll be back shortly."
Hamish's smile dropped after the woman left. Three nights?! What about his men? Urgency demanded action. The soldier took stock of his surroundings. Her abode was a simple one room affair made of wooden planks and bamboo. It had a thatched roof. It was sparsely furnished with this low, large bed. It was easily king size but he wondered if that was sufficient for two similarly-sized people. A simple rack held a few garments, some spears or javelins leaned in a corner with various tips, a net was rolled alongside. Animal hides and pelts offered simple decoration and comfort underfoot. There was a table with a few accoutrements for sewing and stitching. A shelf held a few jars and bottles filled with liquids of various colours. One seemed to be half full of nuts.
The adobe had windows with simple wooden slats for covers. They were thankfully propped ajar, allowing a breeze to cut through the clammy jungle heat. From them Hamish could hear the sounds of female laughter and singing, and the crackling of fires. Hobbling over and bracing himself against the wall he peered out of the narrow gap offered by the sloping boards to check his surroundings. He could see a campfire a few meters beyond the front door and a huddle of young women sat around it. They cuddled or leaned their heads on one another. None of them were modestly dressed, and none of them seemed out of shape. He saw his red-headed saviour cross the line of vision with a steaming bowl in her hands, coming back to the adobe. He perched himself back on the bed before she entered. "How are you feeling?" She asked as she slid onto the bed beside the soldier.
"Much better, thanks. My shoulder is sore but I don't really feel groggy or anything now."
"It sounds like the poison wore off. I've never seen anyone recover so fast." she placed the bowl of boar meat down on the bed between them "I haven't really prepared anything, its just off the fire..."
Hamish was already tearing himself a piece of the meat. As he gorged she looked on with interest. They said nothing more for a time. She waited until he had eaten his fill before finishing the bowl off herself. Laying it to one side, she slid across the bed to sit behind Hamish with her legs straddling him. Her strong arms clutched him about the waist, and he could feel her breasts crushing against his back as she rested her chin on his shoulder. "So! How can I make you more comfortable?"
"This is pretty good for my back actually."
"Well, if your back is hurting..." Hamish was entreated to a sumptuous massage of his neck, shoulders and back. His first such experience. The girl's strength was clear as she effortlessly rubbed out every ache and strain, tempered by her tenderness to get every last scrap of discomfort rooted out. As she worked she chatted with him, rebuffing his questions about her identity with playful ambiguities.
The village was called Kalena. The women who lived there called themselves Amazons, and there were several such enclaves scattered throughout the jungle. They had been there for as long as anyone could remember, passing their traditions down through ritual and wrote. Those traditions seemed to include hunting, singing, weaving, cooking, athletics, languages and martial arts. When he asked how she came to be so strong, she simply giggled and said she trained hard. She seemed to know much more than she would confide, but though recalcitrance would normally make him wary, her demeanour suggested she was preoccupied with...him, frankly. When she finished kneading his shoulders she planted a kiss on the back of his neck. It was dark outside and the sounds of singing had stopped. "I think I can sneak you through the village now that it's night time. Would you like to see it?"
"Yes, I'd like that. Let me see how my ankle holds up."
Hamish struggled to stand and tested his weight on the ankle. It was still too sore to trust and he hobbled for the wall. Before his hand reached the wall she was off the bed and supporting him fully."Oh I'm so stupid! I forgot you hurt your ankle too. Hold on." Before Hamish could protest she slipped a hand behind his knees and picked him up like a wounded pet. "Comfy?"
Hamish laughed incredulously. "Are you?"
The soldier was entreated to a whispered tour of Kalena. The settlement was built on a winding plateau that hugged the edge of a cliff top, almost like a natural road. Above it a stream gushed over the cliff in a waterfall that pooled somewhere near the top. Water from that pool had been channelled down through the village until it pooled again at the bottom before running over the edge at the opposite end. Those two pools were focal points for socialising, as was the arena. At the lowermost end of the village, simple wooden abodes were scattered in enclaves of between four and eight buildings. Here was the Maiden's quarter, apparently, where the majority of the village lived. The maidens were amazons waiting to be chosen to serve a master, and spent all of their time training, foraging, hunting and labouring. Their amusements were usually very physical, and Hamish listened with interest as his guide described the various wrestling contests, dares and challenges they set one another.
As the plateau climbed so did the quality of the buildings, and more permanent structures with evidence of stone working dominated. These large structures resembled halls or barracks, and they were set with brazier enclosures and peculiarly shaped windows, diamond or triangular. The land showed signs of tending here, with neatly paved paths between the buildings and leading on toward the waterfall. This was the Priestess' quarter. The priestesses were teachers and confidants, lawyers and scholars, artisans and counsellors. They seemed to serve a vital role in the community, helping to bridge the fractious castes discretely to ensure that a master who abused his position was dealt with, and the maidens growing restless in waiting were mollified. The masters were not allowed to speak with the Princess, and so it was through the Priestesses that they conveyed concerns, requests or suggestions, for they could speak with her at any time. The Priestesses were the gatekeepers of Amazon society, residing over tribunals, trials of passage and arbitration.
The great Proving Grounds dominated this area, with its arena indoor and out. The inside of the barracks was said to contain weapons and armour, as well as the forges and materials required to produce them. It was a defensible building, not unlike a bunker in design.
"It's idyllic," Hamish replied "I could forget a war was ever going on in the world here."
Her hold on him intensified warmly. "You'll be safe here. I won't let anything happen to you. You'll never have to fight again."
The soldier looked at her as levelly as he could given his silly situation. "If I want the war to be over, I'll have to."
She carried him up along the plateau, which resembled a broad road of earth snaking around the cliffside, pointing out significant features as they went. They took a moment to view a wide open space, a patch of ground darkened by an absence of torchlights.
"This is the proving grounds," the girl explained, hefting him up so he could get a better look "All of our trials, contests and disputes are settled here in the open so the whole village can see."
"What sorts of trials?"
"Well!" the redhead exclaimed excitedly, "Firstly there's general tests of strength, endurance, and agility. Every amazon takes those to prove herself. We all want to be as strong as we can possibly be, so we can protect our scions when the time comes."
"Well, how is it judged or rated?"
"A trial is usually just a feat. Then there are contests, which are against other women. We have monthly ceremonies in which every amazon competes, and these are witnessed by the priestesses, and the Masters. Then it becomes official. There is a hierarchy to the feats outlined by the Priestesses. We call it the Ordeals of Vitalia. It starts off with a Heartstone. An amazon is considered to have come of age when she can lift one above her head and hold it there. It's supposed to prove that we are ready to bear the burden of love. The longer she holds it for, the better. The Priestesses make all kinds of jewellery to recognise our feats. Each one is carved uniquely for us and we keep it when we can hold it up."
"How big is a Heartstone?"
"Its about this big." She held her hands out in a vaguely circular shape and he estimated it was around three feet in diameter. If it was solid stone, he knew he would be at his limits trying to roll it over, let alone lift it. Perhaps they came of age later and only after tremendous physical conditioning, since it seemed like most remained single until they could pass some further, more exacting trial.
The soldier was taken further up the plateau, and through an empty gatehouse with a single tower looking out across the vast valley below. Finding the moon he guessed it was past midnight, and there were no torches or voices to be heard here. In the stark moonlight however he could see that the buildings here were finely crafted, complete with walls and water features fed by siphoned fresh springs from the rock face. Although everything was unfamiliar here he could detect the veneer of class segregation. "Who lives here? " He inquired "Everything looks different."
"These are the masters' quarters, so all of our best work goes here. That big hall in the middle is the council building. You'll get a better view in a moment." She carried him past stonework which had been polished to an exquisite standard. Trickling water gurgled in enclosures around them. Warm lights within the houses were the only indication that anyone else was here. Looming over the houses was a waterfall, not a torrent but a trickle, a veneer cascading down the rocks. The ground was paved with attractive stones crisply laid. The houses were finished. As opposed to the simple reed and wooden huts the amazons dwelled in, these buildings were made of hewn stone or finely aged timbers. Hamish's mood darkened as he recalled his task and the ruinous turn of events that brought him here.
"I need to talk to the masters. I'm on a very important mission."
His guide opened her mouth to reply, but no words came. Instead she seemed to dissipate, like the air of enthusiasm was leaving her body. "It's...not that simple. You're not supposed to be here. I don't know what will happen to you if I introduce you."
"Well look. You've saved my life, at tremendous personal risk by the sound of it. Why don't you leave me outside the village tommorrow and I'll stagger in and pretend we never met?"
She smiled at the thought but didn't seem convinced. "But...I don't..."
"Please." Hamish insisted "It's important."
"Look...you're in no fit state to be wandering out there. I need to take care of you for a while, and then you can make a decision. In the meantime, no one can know you're here. Besides. The Masters have their own affairs to worry about. The people you really need to talk to are the Priestesses, and one of them is keeping our secret for us."
Hamish recalled, blurrily, that he heard and saw two female figures during his recovery. "Then I need to speak with them as soon as possible. Tommorrow, in fact."
"Ok, I'll ask her to come. Would you like to see the rest of the village or do you need to rest?"
"Please, carry on." The woman laughed nervously, and pressed on.
She was taking him to some steps cut into the cliff face, winding up to an artificial walkway that led to a cave behind the waterfall. Here, the girl stopped and turned. Hamish's breath was taken away by the sight of the entire valley, the village in the foreground, bathed in a wan, mystic light. The soldier caught his breath with a sigh.
"It's as if the war never happened. No snipers. No cannons booming in the distance."
"Nope!" she exclaimed cheerfully "It's just you and me, master."
Hamish felt a pang of excitement and apprehension at her use of the term. He looked up to find she was already peering fondly back. The look in her eyes was so intense, so exuberant, he knew he had to say something. "My name is Hamish." he finally uttered.
The girl's expression dropped a few shades, but after a moment's hesitation she smiled again. "Of course, Hamish." The soldier waited for her to go on, but she simply smirked nervously under his gaze. After a long pause she asked in a quiet voice: "Is it true that you fight? Even with no amazons to protect you?"
"The women where I am from do not generally fight. It's rare that they do, anyway. They're not as strong as you are."
"Neither are you!" She laughed.
Hamish couldn't deny it. "True, but...The men have always done the fighting where I am from. It's just how it is."
"So, there are a lot of men where you are from?"
Hamish pulled a face at the odd question. "Yeah. There's about as many men as there are women."
The redhead was awestruck. "I take it there aren't so many men here in the village?"
"There are twelve."
It was Hamish's turn to be amazed. "And how many of you live here?"
"There are around fifty amazons here. Too many. It causes a lot of problems."
"I can imagine. How come there are so few men?"
Her face became quite sullen and serious. "It's a long story. When I hand you over to Sophitia, she will explain everything."
"Ok, sorry to ask so many questions."
"Don't be. It's just, we're not quite the same as you. I can see that now that I've finally met someone from outside the village." She looked away momentarily and Hamish thought he saw sadness. Then she was back again with a smile. "But you're so fragile...and cute! How could anyone send you off to war?"
Hamish scoffed. "My country needed me. After a while I couldn't imagine sitting around being coddled while there's Larinthians to kill. I never reckoned myself a fighter, but war swallows everyone in the end."
At this the redhead grew pensive, and Hamish joined her in watching the crystal clear moonlit expanse, undulating forest rolling away on waves of cliffs and hills. The sound of the waterfall and the vapours gave their vantage point a fresh, invigorating feeling despite the hour. If this was what every moment was like here, the soldier considered, it would be a fantastic place to retire to once the war was over. He looked past her to where the path led behind the waterfall. "What's through there?" He said, jerking his chin.
"Oh...I'm...I'm not supposed to talk about it to outsiders. It's a place the Priestesses go. It's sacred."
" Alright, I was just curious. It's the best defended part of the town. It's hidden, bottlenecked, and encased in a mountain and a waterfall. So I thought something important might be there."
She hesitated a moment before confiding. "Not something...someone." Hamish detected even this tiny detail was privileged information, and considered the ramifications. Everything in the village had been built in escalating order of class, and this cave was above even the masters quarters.
As he reflected his eyes fell upon the valley below them. The sky was clear with a full moon, and the carpet of trees undulating through the valley seemed like ocean waves. The pool at the cliff's edge was crystal glass, filled by the silver moonlight. He shifted his weight in the girl's arms so that he was tipping into her body. He resisted the temptation to rest his head on her shoulder, but after a moment's hesitation she effortlessly pulled his head into place. It made him feel foolish for even trying to maintain a distance.
From his close perspective he studied her - her firm, warm skin. The flawless lines of her face. The vitality and strength bursting from her body. Soft but so massive that it felt like a pressing force against him, a constant effort for her arms to hold him against. But something at the back of his mind wouldn't let him enjoy the sensation fully. He couldn't lose himself here, in good conscience, knowing there was so much to do. "Thank you for the tour." He blurted abruptly.
She looked down at him hungrily. "My pleasure." The redhead replied without moving her gaze. The longer he looked into her eyes the closer she seemed to get to him, her face edging toward his own, his lips magnetically seeking hers. He blinked to find they were merely inches away, parted mouths breathless with anticipation. After a moments hesitation, she lunged forward and kissed him fiercely. Hamish struggled firstly with his fear, which caused his hand to push at her shoulder feebly, then with his desire, which caused him to seize the back of her head and gorge on her affection, and finally with his guilt which caused him to freeze awkwardly and let her slip away. She tenderly parted their contact and opened her eyes to meet his again. "What are you so afraid of?" She demanded, softly.
"I've..."
Her lovely eyes fluttered in front of his. "Yes?"
"...I'm not very...I've never..."
Her nose touched his and she grinned. "Yeah?"
"This has never happened to me befo- "
Before he could finish her lips had found his again and her powerful embrace secured them despite his hesitation. "Now it has. Just relax. I'll take care of you." He laughed helplessly, and she joined in, the need to be quiet reducing both to a giggling mush as she carried him back to her abode.
When they got home she laid him gently onto the bed and climbed astride him. Poised above like a feline toying with its dinner, she teased him with kisses, darting in and breaking off with an acute awareness of his hesitation. Her tactics left him giddy, until he was simply staring up at her dazed and confused. "Touch me" she whispered.
"W...whereabouts?" The soldier stammered.
She kissed his neck, working up to his earlobe. "Anywhere you like" she breathed, before nibbling it.
Hamish let his hands fall on her body and ran them along the sublime curve where her hips and waist met. She seemed to stir into his touch and he began to experiment, daring to reach further and higher with every caress. He explored her firm buttocks, thumbed her chiselled abdominals, his hands ran across soft and smooth and grabbed hard and firm. She seemed to enjoy whatever he did, sometimes looking down with interest to observe him admiring her, other times her eyes closed as if her sense of touch was overwhelming any others. She brought his hands up to her bust and he sighed as he finally let himself answer his sordid inquiries about the weight of her breasts, their firmness under his grip. He kissed her, reaching up off the bed to do so, and she caught his weight in one arm to keep him at her mouth, her neck. Her stance, her body, seemed to exert complete control over him. The fact she was bearing his weight was a unique thrill that he wanted to explore, he wanted to test her power and feel it working for him. He hooked his legs up around her waist and, sensing his desire, she cupped a hand beneath his leg so that his entire weight was held by her as she knelt on the bed. They kissed fiercely, until they could only rest their foreheads against one another breathlessly.
"Thank you for saving my life," Hamish whispered, remembering suddenly the chain of dreadful events that brought him to this moment. It was as if someone had burst into the room to observe him in his moment of need. He felt as if he was watching someone else enjoying this moment, as if it was meant for another, not him. As much as his body was yearning for it, his mind simply refused to let go of its many worries. She felt his passion ebb away and kissed him needily, but the moment was passed. She breathed a sigh of desperate yearning.
"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."
"I'm not." She smiled, defiantly, refusing to permit him to break contact with her. "I'm going to make you see your future, not your past. For now, lets cuddle some more and rest. Does that sound ok?"
He nodded with a smirk, and she laughed at him.
-
Fantastic story Machao. Thanks for posting!!
You're most welcome sir. Loads more to follow! Haven't finished writing the bloody thing yet either XD
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PART 4:
The following morning she woke him gently as he lay in her arms.
"I have to hand you over to the Priestess now. I'm taking a trial today and I won't be able to look after you. She'll keep you safe while I'm gone." She turned her back to him and held out the threads of her bikini top for him to tie, which he did gingerly. She turned and kissed him tenderly. "Sophitia will be here in a moment." As if on cue there was a knock on the door, light and subdued. "I'll see you soon."
His host opened the door to a strikingly beautiful blonde woman, slightly taller even than his redheaded saviour. Her shining gold hair was held up in braided loops and pinned by a bejewelled headdress, a kind of tiara. Veils of white hung from its sides, while her attire was comprised of a very revealing white dress that covered the essentials by crossing the body before hanging down in slices before and behind the legs. It was joined by a broad belt of silver inlaid with turqoise gems. Her arms were bedecked with braids, circlets and beaded ties. Her limbs, though softer in complexion, showed similar hallmarks of subtle power and tone. Her abdominals were prominent, windowed by her dress, and the belt beneath them seemed to droop away as if to give them more room to be seen. She was carrying a wicker basket over one shoulder.
The two exchanged quiet words in what must have been the native tongue. Hamish noticed a degree of chiding from the tone of the newcomer, who looked him over and then said something with a mischievous grin. The redhead laughed and left. Hamish made to get up but the blonde visitor crossed the room in two strides and gently barred him from further action, placing her basket on the ground.
"Good evening," she began, perching herself on the bed beside him. "My name is Sophitia. I am a Priestess of Vitalia, and a friend to you both. She produced from the bag a stone bottle and removed two small cups that had been hanging from hooks around its width. "Springwine," she explained, filling the cups and offering him one. Hamish accepted the drink wordlessly and sniffed at it. It smelled like fruit salad. He tasted it and found the sweetness and its cool storage cut through the oppressive humidity like a blessing.
"You have many questions." the Priestess declared, and Hamish realised he was being invited to speak.
"Yes," he began, readying himself for some answers at last. "What is the name of the red-haired girl who saved my life?"
"She does not have a name, because no master has named her yet."
"There's that word again. Who are the masters? How does one become a master?"
Sophitia thought about his question a moment before answering. "A master is a Scion who has named a Maiden. You are a Scion. She is a Maiden. You could be a Master simply by..."
"Whoa, wait...I'm not anything. I'm a visitor, a tourist, an intruder. I don't belong here. My name is Hamish, by the way."
"You are a man. You must be protected and cared for. You command and we obey. It is what the Amazons were created for."
"All men are Scions?"
"No. Only the worthy."
Hamish closed his eyes as he tried to piece together the new information. "What makes someone worthy? I mean, how do you know? Surely they can't just walk in, name someone, and boom they're in charge?"
She smiled patiently. "It is our job to know, as Priestesses. Although...there are so few Scions to be found..."
Hamish found her ambiguity annoying. "Well, I need to talk to the Masters. But...Miss Noname out there says I actually need to talk to you. So who speaks for your people?"
"Do not toy with names." The Priestess chided sharply. Then thought about her answer very carefully. "The masters decide what will happen. The Priestesses decide what should happen. We are advisors and confidants. We hear the insecurities and anxieties of both Masters and Maidens. And we serve the Lineage."
"The Lineage?"
Sophitia smiled again and positioned herself to lie beside him on the bed. "I think I had best start at the beginning, Hamish. This story may take a while. May I help you to relax while I tell it?"
Hamish nodded absently while he wondered what she meant by this, but quickly found out as she pulled his head down onto her bosom and massaged his scalp with her hands. Her voice had a crystal clear, but velvet soft quality to it, and combined with the massage and the security of her body next to his, became quite hypnotic.
* * * * * * *
In the beginning, there were two gods. Lethys, the Coiled King, who's touch was poison and who's grip was unyielding. The lord of desolation, weakness and terror, he made his home in the south of the world and such was his malign presence that the soil dried to sand and the trees withered and died. The people of the Earth feared his influence and could not live in his lands.
The other was the Goddess Vitalia, Queen of Strength and vigor. It was her might that set the world in motion, and her breaths made the wind stir and the clouds move. She took no home, preferring to wander through the wilderness, bringing storms and thunder and fresh life wherever she went. Her name was uttered gratefully at the birthing of children, and during the hard labours of harvest, and before battle.
The Dawning of Knowledge was a time of great adventure and strife, as mortals sought to explore the desolate lands of the South and even established towns and cities there. But slowly the land corrupted these people by driving them ravenous for the minerals in the rocks at the heart of the desert, and the oil buried far beneath the ground. Other nations stopped trading with Lethys' tainted people because they were growing aggressive and unfair in their deals. So they deserted his lands and left their cities and mines.
It was during this era that a man of great intellect arose. He was Octavius, the Alchemist. He took it upon himself to learn the nature of matter, and became obsessed with creating life. But his creations lacked the spark of higher intellect that humans possessed. His studies seemed thwarted to end at the strange beasts that now plague the jungle and the desert and the ocean.
Octavius was shunned by others because he was so involved in his studies. He lived on an island abandoned by the settlers, in the Garaean ocean separating north from south. Yet Lethys had noted the loner as the only human who did not flee from his aura of fear, and so he visited the Alchemist one night. First he assumed the guise of a great snake, and shimmied across the ocean in moments. Then he coiled around the Alchemists' tower and squeezed until the walls creaked. When Octavius opened his door to see what was happening, Lethys transfixed him with his gaze.
The conversation they had differs in legend. Some have it that Octavius offered his service to Lethys in return for being left alone with his studies, and the eventual promise of the secret to sentient life. Others say Lethys traded this knowledge to Octavius in return for his making him a race of humans who loved him and him alone. Many submit that Octavius was a good man who would never have done something so foolish unless he was threatened. Others suggest he was a selfish and introverted man with no concern for others, only his studies and his own pleasure.
Whatever their dialogue, Lethys imparted knowledge to Octavius that revealed to him the secrets of making complex life - as a god might - and in elation he produced many species of being that have passed into myth. First of all however, he created humans anew at the behest of his reptillian benefactor. These were imbued with some of the malice of Lethys which made them sensitive to his will. They were the first Larinthians, and their massive, powerful physiques were second only to their calculating, inventive minds and ambitious, ruthless hearts. These people quickly settled in the harsh lands of Lethys and made them hospitable once more, bending the world to their whim and shaping the mountains, the hills, and the rivers to suit their needs. They quickly became prosperous and it wasn't long before the beginnings of a culture based on slavery and warfare had set in. Intrepid traders from the North brought tantalising stories of other cultures, and soon the borders of the Larinthian empire touched those of the other nations.
Octavius meanwhile had long since rectified the problem of expiry and made himself eternal. He lived through centuries as the Larinthians rose ascendant in the south. Before long the cultures were clashing, and he was sought after by many cultures seeking to gain the upper hand over their adversaries. They paid him richly for producing beasts of war, slave soldiers, and new species with which to best their adversaries on the battlefield. The wars went on for decades, but one by one the smaller tribes bordering the Larinthians became protectorates and Satrapies. As the Larinthian culture diversified it grew and adapted, and soon it was the strongest and wealthiest of all the Early States.
However, the Larinthians had never been able to cross the sea that seperated the Two Bodies. It was immensely turbulent and ferocious thanks to the ire of the Goddess Vitalia, who swam in them constantly and with her mighty limbs lashed the shores in tumult. She had heard of the rising evil in the South and in warning sought to worry the northerners into making preparations. But they attributed her message as a period of troublesome weather, and turned inward. Though no boats dared to cross the ocean, she had seen birds flocking and knew that the inventive Larinthians would not long devise a means of following them.
In desperation, she visited the reclusive Octavius, who had cursed the land by obeying Lethys' will. She appeared as a colossal wave that decimated his island fortress, washing him out of it. At the mercy of the sea, he was cradled by mighty Vitalia, who whispered his follies and the threat she could see in the future. Stricken with fear and loathing, Octavius begged for her aid in redeeming himself. She commanded that he use his arts to create some means of protecting the world from Lethys and restore the balance of power. Then she carried him gently to the shore and deposited him in Fantera.
When Octavius awoke, he set about his mission. But he had seen so many beasts and soldiers rise and fall in the wars. What was it that made a great warrior? Hatred? The Larinthians hated with abandon but only elicited a greater response from their enemies. Ambition? It led to overconfidence and rebellion. Vigilance? Too strong a sense of justice led only to gaps of logic that could be exploited. Octavius needed something more in his life, something that superseded all of these things, surpassed them. Something he had felt in the care of the Goddess Vitalia. Love. Try as he might, he could not replicate the qualities needed to fulfil the task she had asked of him.
Meanwhile, Lethys stirred at the sudden disappearance of his favourite vassal, and set out in search of him. He scoured the world, bringing nightmares and tremors wherever he went, until finally he found the massive jungle untamed and wild. This jungle was populated with people who were steadfastly against him, and their prowess in battle was considerable. Yet above the canopy of the trees there loomed a mountain, and atop it a tower. Here was Octavius, and Lethys coiled himself angrily around his tower so that he could not interfere with his conquest any further.
When Vitalia next came to visit Octavius in Fantera and see how he was progressing, she found the Coiled King had incarcerated him in the tower with his great body. Lethys laughed at her naivety, claiming that the power of love was nothing next to the grip of dominion. Vitalia raged back defiantly, and a great tempest broke over the jungle. When Octavius heard her fierce voice, he uttered an adoring prayer to her, confessing his everlasting love. At this, Vitalia leaped forward and forced apart the great snakes coils, holding them away from the tower and allowing Octavius to escape. Released, the Alchemist could only watch from the floor as Lethys tightened like a noose around Vitalia and twisted his body around hers vengefully. Lethys howled with rage and squeezed with all his might, crushing the tower to dust between his coils. He squeezed and squeezed and squeezed, unable to quench his thirst for destruction and torment. But Vitalia weathered the terrible agony. Having traded her freedom for Octavius', the Goddess endured unimaginable torment and suffering at the hands of Lethys, who could do nothing but rage and exert himself against his powerful captive. Trapped in this eternal embrace, the two Gods are ensnared to this day, and it is said that only their followers can tip the balance of power.
The Alchemist for his part realised Vitalia's vision and harvested some of the sweat and blood from her tortured body for use in his experiments. From these droplets, he imbued his final creations with the might and courage of the Goddess Vitalia, empowering them over all his previous constructs. He created a race of warrior women who would love and defend the weak, like the Goddess had defended him. These he hid in the jungle in scattered enclaves, where they could train and prepare. He anointed the first Queen of the Amazons and would have led an army of the amazons to rescue the Goddess, but Lethys had poisoned him during his captivity and after his magnum opus, he perished slowly. The Lineage of amazons he created using Vitalia's own essence lives on to this day, and the one found to hold the most of the Goddess' power rules as their Queen . The romance of the vulnerable man and the strong woman remains a pivotal narrative in Amazon culture. The amazons resist the predations of Lethys' followers, certain in their belief that they are descendants of Vitalia herself.
* * * * * * * * * *
Despite her dulcet tones Hamish was able to digest the story and bit back his cynicism as Sophitia awaited his questions.
"So as a priestess of Vitalia, your role is to preach this narrative?"
"Not at all. My job is to ensure that each amazon is motivated to fulfill her duty to her scion. That she is strong enough to bear whatever burdens must be carried, brave enough to face whatever danger, and gentle enough to care for you when you need it most. Amazons come to a priestess to settle their worries, or for advice on how to please their masters. Sometimes, a scion will come to me for advice. We are teachers and confidants, not preachers."
"So...do you have a master?"
Sophitia smiled sadly. "No. To become a priestess is to forsake the path of love and embrace the path of wisdom."
Hamish shifted to look up at her. "I don't mean to sound rude, but how do you advise people on something you eschew?"
Sophitia laughed and brushed a wisp of hair out of her face bashfully. "That's a fair question. In some ways we can't - practically - but spiritually we're unblemished by the complexities of life. We can see the purity of purpose that all amazons should adhere to, and that's how we serve. When difficult decisions, sacrifices and hardship abound, it can be easy to lose sight of your guiding virtues. It's widely said among amazons that it takes a person who wants what you have, to tell you what you're missing."
"That's...actually a really good point." The soldier reflected, "In my culture life seems to be about hitting certain targets in life. Get a good job, earn good money, buy good things, impress a good woman. It's a recipe for anxiety. I try to tell myself every day that I've had a good life, but...there's always someone out there waiting to make me feel inadequate because I don't earn as much as them, or I don't drive as big a car."
The priestess carefully placed her cup of springwine on the bedside table, then leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, before taking his shoulders in her hands. "There is nothing inadequate about you. Forget you ever learned that word. When you name an amazon she will make you wonder why such words were ever written down." She beamed at him excitedly. Stunned, Hamish cleared his throat.
"So...this naming business..."
She grinned with what could have been satisfaction at his intrigue, or relief at his tacit endorsement. While the Argonian balked, mouth flapping in astonishment, Sophitia carefully pressed herself against him and wrapped her arms around his body, pulling him gently into the air with her. She cuddled him close with an appreciative sigh.
"An amazon waits patiently for the day she will be named. It is the single happiest moment of their life, short of pleasing the one that named them thereafter. They train relentlessly to earn the favour of a scion when one appears. They will endure agony just to get your attention, and brave injury and exhaustion to earn your affection. That name will bind her to you forever, every time she is called she will think of you. It is no gesture, no ceremony. It is a pledge, an oath, a promise. A spell."
Hamish frowned. "How can a word have so much power?"
"Words have always had power, Scion. Names are the most powerful words of all."
"You mentioned responsibility. So far it sounds like a Scion has the better part of this arrangement. What exactly does the man have to do?"
Sophitia met his eye carefully. "Nothing." She let that sink in as the Argonian narrowed his eyes. "The maiden you name will learn everything she can about you, the better to please you. She'll shape herself to your every whim and fancy. You can use and abuse her, treat her like the lowliest beast and she will still adore you." The soldier listened incredulously as the priestess' gaze intensified. "You don't have to do anything."
Hamish waited for further elaboration, but instead Sophitia simply watched him. He realised it was his turn to speak. "I'm not sure I want to use or abuse anyone. I'm not really in a position to get involved. If I were going to get that kind of attention from someone I'd want to make it worth their while, to be honest. What with the war and all, I haven't given my personal life much attention. So I don't think this is something I should be getting messed up in."
The priestess leaned forward and kissed him gently on the lips. "That is precisely why you are worthy. You haven't come here to exploit or to enslave. Your arrival here is a cause for tremendous celebration. The girls will work themselves into a frenzy for you. You can..." Sophitia trailed off when she realised that a tear was streaming down Hamish's cheek. "...what's wrong?"
"I think I'm just a bit overwhelmed. Last I remember I thought I was dying. Before that, I was watching my friend get killed because I led them here on a no-hope mission to find...something. Someone. And now I've woken up to find you and whatshername. It's like I died and went to heaven, but I know the bodies of my friends are out there somewhere. Maybe even some survived. I have a war to fight."
Sophitia took his hand and squeezed it. "No, you don't! Remember the legend? The amazons were built to protect and serve their masters. You don't have to fight anything or anyone."
"Yes I do!" Hamish snapped angrily. "I've spent my life fighting those slave-driving shitheels. They've taken everything from me, my friends, my family, my homeland. I've killed dozens of men, conscripted boys thrown in front of our guns. I beat one to death with a house brick once. You have no idea what I've had to do to myself to fit it all in, the hatred, the fear, the rage. I'm in no fit state for any of this crap!" The soldier tore himself away from her and sat upright on the edge of the bed, incensed.
The priestess watched him for a moment before quietly adding; "She mentioned you didn't just have nightmares in your sleep. Why have you come here?"
The Argonian's mind raced as he considered his position. These people had taken him in and nursed him back to health, saved his life even. And they were clearly opposed to the Larinthians. Most his unit were dead or irrevocably lost in the jungle, and he had no means of completing his task. With a resigned sigh he collapsed back on the bed and rubbed his face tiredly. "My country is at war with Larinth. We're losing, badly. In three months' time the Larinthians will have smashed our forces and occupied the capital, enslaving as they go. A couple of crackpots managed to sell an idea to my commanders that there was super science buried in the jungle. We'd noticed the Larinthians were coming here in huge numbers, so part of my mission was to find out why."
Sophitia lay alongside him and rested her head on his shoulder, running a hand across his chest gently. "Go on."
"Uh...That's it. We gathered a bunch of hopeless cases, stuffed them into a transport with a fighter escort and got shot down. I got out, a few others got out. Everyone else is dead. The others who survived...I have no idea where they might be. I've already been almost killed by Larinthians myself, we landed more or less on top of them. By some miracle, that redhead found me. I owe her my life."
"And me." the priestess said coolly. She smiled playfully when he glanced at her.
"You too."
"And since you owe me, you can start to repay me by forgiving yourself."
Hamish looked at her coldly. "What?"
"You've survived a great ordeal. But none of these disasters were of your making. You were sent here by others, you upheld your obligation to serve, to obey. You've done the bidding of others and it cost you immensely. You've lost friends, your life has been endangered, and now you are lost and far from home. But though your situation seems helpless..." She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. "...help is at hand."
Before he could complain she was off the bed, her scant robe trailing elegantly behind her as she strode purposefully toward a cabinet in the corner. Opening it, she produced his ASDF uniform, rifle, and pack. Bringing them back to the bed she laid them out neatly with a smile.
"Your red haired saviour was careful to retrieve all of your belongings as well. She asked me to keep them hidden, as well as you."
The soldier handled his rifle, enjoying its familiarity in his hands. "Hidden?"
"Yes." Sophitia climbed up onto the bed and knelt at his feet. "You see, when a new scion arrives in the village, it is a cause for great celebration and ceremony. But both I and her agreed that the last thing you would want is to be subjected to such excitement after your injury. Also...I suspect she wanted to charm you a bit before anyone else caught your eye." The Priestess added this with a coquettish look that gave him a pang of excitement. He had to catch his breath as their thoughtfulness was unfolded for him, and his thoughts leaped back to the previous night when he had refused the girl's invitation.
"She must think I'm very ungrateful. She tried to fool around with me but...I wasn't really in a place to be fooled around with. I've never..." He looked up at the blonde, hoping that he wouldn't have to explain himself further, but she simply smiled patiently at him. "...been with anyone before. I wasn't really thinking about it either, what with the shooting and the almost dying and the jungle and all."
"I shouldn't worry about it." She smirked. "You will never lose her interest. And if you'd like any help with your...inexperience...that is something we Priestesses also help with." Hamish blinked incredulously for a moment, but before he could call her out on this revelation she changed the subject. "You came here to find out why the Larinthians are coming here. The answer is us. Over the last year a dozen enclaves have fallen to their advance. There are hundreds of thousands of Lethys' followers in our jungle and they mean to stay. They exploit the land, and us. Amazons fetch a staggering price in their slave markets and they employ us as labourers, concubines and worse. They have many methods of breaking their captives and controlling their workforce. Though an amazon is a mighty warrior, we do not have the knowledge or the means to overcome the sheer resources that the enemy commands. They can strike us from afar with great, noisy, burning weapons. Enormous machines that crush us. Unfeeling constructs that harry and hound us for days. So far the war has not reached Kalena, but one day it will."
The soldier's interest sharpened as he came to a realisation. "You're at war with the Larinthians too?"
"Do you not remember the legend? They are our mortal adversaries. We serve the goddess Vitalia. They serve the Coiled King, Lethys. We are the greatest threat to his dominion over the world, and he means to wipe us off the face of the planet or worse, bend us to his service."
Hamish resented the implication after all his fighting that these jungle women posed the greater resistance to Larinthian rule. But he let his bristling reaction subside before asking a more pertinent question. "I don't think I've seen any electricity here. How do you communicate with other villages? How do you know what's going on?"
Sophitia cocked her head as if the question was strange to her. "Runners. We send scouts."
"You travel everywhere on foot?"
"Yes, but...we are fast and tireless..." The amazon sounded indignant at his disbelief.
"Your enemy uses wireless communication to speak with allies they can't even see. They must be running rings around you. By the time you have word that a village is under attack, it'll be too late to send help to them."
She looked at him angrily, but though tears came to her eyes she nodded in agreement. "Even you can see it. But the enclaves are ruled by the Masters. And the masters...well, it's just not so simple as sending one enclave to help another. There are trials. Might must be asserted."
"What are you talking about?"
"If an enclave has decided, for example, to stay in hiding, and we send a runner to them asking for their help, that runner will have to pass a trial to secure their aid. If she fails, no aid will come."
"That's a ridiculous way of sorting anything out. Why is that the case?"
"The Ordeals of Vitalia. They govern our society. Vitalia suffered that we might live. So must we suffer to assert the will of our masters."
"And the masters are...just guys like me? Dickheads who wandered in and named someone?"
She frowned at his irreverence. "...They're not 'just' anything, Hamish. They are our purpose in life, the very reason we were created. To serve. To protect. To obey. To please. When the words of the masters contravene, it is our might that makes right."
Hamish rubbed his eyes with a frustrated sigh. He still felt as though all of this was too much to take in, too bizarre, too dreamlike. But he was at least able to move and think now. And the more he thought, the more questions he had to ask. The more answers he got, the clearer his situation became. "Is there somewhere I can get changed?"
The question caught her off-guard. "Here, of course!"
"I meant in privacy."
She crawled on all fours across him with a mischievous look. "Why?"
"Because...I don't think you want to see me naked."
"I already have. Now, let me help you dress."
* * * * * * * *
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* * * * * * * *
The soldier was not well enough to hobble about on his own, and so he stayed in the care of his erstwhile host for much of the day. Any attempt to get out and explore was enigmatically, but firmly rebuked, and since he was reliant on her for mobility, she was calling the shots. She fed him nuts and berries, plied him with water and springwine, checked on and salved his wounds and massaged his atrophied muscles. All the while she answered his questions, or avoided them. So they talked.
Sophitia explained that each village, or Enclave, was ruled by a Princess. The Princess was a sacrosanct and mighty arbiter of law who's word carried absolute authority among those amazons who were maidens, those without masters, which in most villages was the majority. A princess was a direct descendant or relation of the High Queen, and their appointment was irrevocable. According to the Priestess no Princess had ever been anything but wise, conscientious and fair. The Council, on the other hand, saw to the day-to-day running of the enclave and its amenities, as well as voting on policy for their community. They had the power to resist the authority of the Princess if her decrees would interfere with the running of the Enclave. The amazons under a master served as political currency. A master granted the right to name more amazons by the Princess, or who won the right through other means, held more weight of authority than one with fewer amazons in his harem. To a certain extent, the Princess exists to prevent any one master from gaining a majority of one over the council. But without the Council, enclaves would quickly become despondent and feral.
In the Sisterhood of Vitalia, a Princess retains a certain spiritual indentity that she has dominion over. Through the Priestesses she can commune discretely with her Enclave irrespective of masters, maidens, scions or names, and hear the pulse of her community. Princesses also have Handmaidens, elite bodyguards who like the Sisterhood forsake their desire to serve a master in favour of serving her. This is often a punishment for a maiden but can also be the fate of an Amazon who loses their master. It is said that a Handmaiden would murder a master if the Princess ordered it, though that is just a story.
Amazon society is based around rituals and trials, which they call Ordeals. These take the form of immense feats of strength and endurance. Every amazon must pass a trial of maidenhood before they become eligible for a name. Other trials involve competition and combat between maidens for the right to be named by a scion. Disputes between masters were settled by combat, as were arguments between maidens. "So, what happens when a scion and a maiden like each other, but she fails the contests and can't be picked by him?" Hamish asked with interest, causing the priestess to smile wryly.
"Well generally speaking if the two are set on each other there is very little that might get between them. An Amazon simply will not stop if they know their master is waiting for them."
"But what if she doesn't succeed?"
Sophitia gave him a scolding look. "I'm sure the thought wouldn't cross your mind once you'd spent some time with her, but...if it really came to that, its not unheard of for the Princess to grant an opportunity for the scion to make ends meet. In that case he'd be expected to answer a challenge instead."
"Isn't that a little unfair on the girl who won?"
"She's yours no matter what. You have to name her. It would be outrageously disrespectful not to, it would fly in the face of everything we know and all the maidens have trained their lives for."
Hamish scratched his cheek nervously. "Your culture is very...uhh...competetive, isn't it?"
"It is our way. Only the fittest may be entrusted with our sacred duties. It also ensures that the strongest come to be controlled appropriately."
"You said earlier that if a master was abusive, it didn't matter and the amazon would have to put up with it. What if he was really terrible. Dangerous even?"
Sophitia's head drooped as she remembered sadly. "It's been known to happen. We've seen more than a few Larinthian infiltrators or deserters of impure heart. Unfortunately once an Amazon has been named by her master she will defend him to the bitter end. Then it falls on the Princess and her Handmaidens to dispose of the venomous master. But they don't do so lightly. Normally the grief-stricken amazon is taken into her cadre - if she ever recovers. Losing a master is tantamount to suicide for any maiden. It's worse than death." As an afterthought, she looked up at him cheerfully. "That's why it's so exciting to see a scion of pure heart come to our village."
The Argonian frowned, wrestling with his self image. "How do you know I'm pure of heart? What if I turn out to be some depraved psycho? What if the war has gotten to me and all I can think of is hurting other people?"
She strew herself across him and slid her arms around his shoulders. "You and I both know that isn't the case. You want to be loved, I can feel it. You can't hide from me, and you won't be able to hide from her either." She turned his chin toward the end of the bed where a familiar redhead nervously approached. Hamish immediately felt a pang of guilt and alarm being caught in the arms of this other woman, but Sophitia extricated herself and rose to her feet. "He still needs plenty of rest, eager one. I trust all went well with your trial?"
The redhead nodded sheepishly. "I passed. Thank you so much for recommending me."
"Your exuberance recommends itself. Take care, both of you." The priestess let herself out. Then the girl shot him an excited grin and Hamish swung himself off the bed and toward her.
She looked as though she had been hard at work. Her body was covered in dirty scuffs and grass stains, and bits of leaves and buds clung to her sweat-drenched body. Her breathing was heavy, tired, but she seemed elated as she held out her arms for him.
"What on Earth have you been doing?" he asked, brushing off some burrs from her hair.
"My trial of Maidenhood," she beamed "It's been a hard day, but now I'm finally worthy of being named."
Hamish felt a pang of excitement at the mention of that strange naming convention, remembering Sophitia's words about the powerful bond that existed once a Scion named an Amazon. "So, what did they make you do?"
She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him off the floor, carrying him back toward the bed. "Well, all kinds of things. Normally you just have to hold a heartstone for longer than any other challenger, but because there were so many of us they held a kind of tourney. We've been doing all kinds of things; Pillar-Pushes, Bearhugs, Scissor-duels, Sumo, Tug-of-War, and a few tests of endurance, like seeing how many times we can lift a Heartstone with just our legs while hanging onto a bar or branch, for example." she sighed as she remembered what was clearly an intensive and exhausting sequence of events. "I wish you could have been allowed to watch, master."
The word rang in Hamish's head like a bell, and his first instinct was to correct her. But instead he caught himself lost in her gaze, and had to determine to close his mouth. "Me too" he added abruptly, causing her face to light up.
"I hope Sophitia took good care of you while I was away?"
"Yes, I learned a lot. She's a very interesting lady."
"She's been very fair to me. The other priestesses all seem to want to keep us down, but she was the only one who seemed to want to allow another trial to take place, let alone encourage me to pass it. They say there aren't enough masters and more maidens will just complicate things."
"It sounds like you've had a really tough day. All of those things sounded exhausting. I remember my basic training and feeling like I was never going to make the grade, running a few miles nearly killed me. So you were competing against everyone else? How many people did you have to beat?"
"Thirty five," she said matter of factly "they said it was the most number of prospects in the history of the village. Julia said the fact I'd beaten so many was a sign of greatness. I really need to bathe, but..." She cocked a glance at him "Maybe we could just go to bed early and see where our cuddling takes us?" Hamish smiled and let her carry him back to the bed.
-
The door banging open startled them both. Three amazons in scant armour rushed forward and seized the red haired girl by her arms and hair, causing her to scream in alarm. She let go of Hamish just in time as the attackers dragged her painfully off the bed with a thud, throwing her against the wall and striking her across the face, chest and stomach with powerful blows.
"...The fuck is this?!" Hamish demanded, but as he leaped forward the third amazon pushed with one hand, sending him crashing back to the bed in agony as his wound grumbled.
"Silence, defiler!"
"Master, no! Don't touch him!" The redhead surged at her attackers, blood trickling from her mouth. She barged one of the tall girls aside with a crash, then ducked under a swing by the other to throw her overhead. Finally she laid her hands on the third girl who pushed him over and clapped her hands around her throat, raising her off the ground with a grimace.
Her victim kicked viciously against her bulging abdominals, and Hamish could see that although his saviour was enraged, the strong blows were winding her. She cast the attacker down onto her back through the shelving just as her two would-be captors returned to the fray from behind. They snatched her arms and twisted them up and forward, forcing her to double over and kneel. But the redhead rolled with the momentum and somersaulted forwards, snapping her feet across the faces of both attackers as she did so. She shook one off with a shove that sent her sprawling to the floor, and laid into the other with a blow to the stomach and then the back. With all three adversaries down, she looked back at Hamish with her hand outstretched. "Master!"
"What the hell is going on?" Hamish breathed, taking her hand. She swept him up into her arms tightly and rushed outside, but there was an audience waiting for them. six amazons waited beyond, some imperious in long robes and others warlike with veiled faces. The front runners were armed and armoured. They did not look at all pleased. The red haired girl whimpered and squeezed him, before setting him reluctantly on the ground. Crestfallen, she gave herself to the mob without another word, and was taken under guard.
The three girls who had attacked emerged behind him and he feared he was going to be set upon as an unwelcome intruder. But the one that pushed him over presented herself meekly, head bowed, and muttered an apology. Then he was taking gently by the arm, and he turned to see one of the robed priestesses guiding him away from the crowd. Her hair was shining gold in the firelight and tied in intricate braid-loops at the side, and one massive braided tail at the back. She wore similar garb to the Priestess he had met earlier - a feathered headdress, white feathers dipped dark at their tips, that ended in a mask across her eyes and nose. In the torchlight the colours were lost to a rusty brown or orange glow. A long white robe just barely concealed her breasts, gathered at the waist by a broad leather belt inlaid with ornate medallions. The robe hung to ankle length, seperated into twin tails at the front and back that did nothing to obscure her sumptuous figure and muscular legs. Not that Hamish had much time to absorb the details.
"What the fuck is..." Hamish demanded, but he was silenced with a fierce glare, and he waited until she had dragged him ahead of the mob and mostly out of earshot before hissing into his ear. When she spoke he realised it was Sophitia.
"Hush. I told her to be careful but she was too excited. I shouldn't have encouraged her but...the situation in the village is tight. Someone must have heard something and reported your presence. Subverting the Sacred Bond is a dire offense."
"She saved my life. Is that enough of a bond? Where are they taking her?"
"To the circle to stand trial. You are required there also. Come, before we're missed."
"I'm not going any..."
"Yes, you are. You need to stand trial so I can prove you're no threat to the village."
At this revelation, the soldier let himself be led by torchlight up the moutainside where his host had showed him barely an hour ago. The flames revealed a clearing surrounded with strange, heavy looking apparatus - crude blocks and boulders, stone pillars, frames wrought from cold iron that seemed to resemble climbing frames, monkey bars, pylons. Here the amazons gathered, all ages and castes, priestesses at the fore distinct with flowing white robes. Ominous warriors, tall and powerful even among these stupendous physiques, watched silently behind their veils. As they approached the circle drums played low and rhythmically, and an atmosphere of anticipation seemed to animate the crowd. They looked excited, angry, vindictive.
Hamish was stopped by Sophitia's firm hand on his shoulder, and kept beside her as another priestess took the centre. The red haired maiden was brought into the circle by the two bodyguards and the priestess, whose black hair seemed to melt into the night despite the flickering torches, raised her hands for silence. She spoke in an unfamiliar language and the gathered village responded to her with chants and cries. Sophitia translate for Hamish's benefit.
"She's saying that a sacred law has been broken, that of the trials, and that by attempting to abscond with a scion this maiden has shown unworthy cowardice."
"That's bullshit!" Hamish erupted, but one of the bodyguards stood in front of him, staring him down implacably, daring him to speak again.
Sophitia was in his ear. "Don't interfere. At this moment you are either a scion or a slaver. Which is it?"
"What even is a scion?"
The priestess sighed painfully. "Remember the legend? Octavius created the Amazons to care for and protect mankind. You owe her your life. You need to take responsibility, stand before all of these people, and tell them her name."
Hamish was dumbstruck. He had been here for three days and didn't even know her name. She'd saved his life, shown him kindness beyond measure, and even affection. He knew nothing of her.
"She never told me her name."
"She doesn't have one yet!" Sophitia hissed. "Give her one."
The soldier balked. He was beginning to wonder if this was another fever dream, that he was still incapacitated on the bed. Perhaps it was all too fast to be true. Then the girl in the circle cried out and he snapped back to reality.
The two veiled warriors seized one of their captives arms apiece, as if about to use her for a tug of war. His saviours hands were balled fists as she struggled against them. Despite her considerable strength the jailors' grasp was ironclad, and he could see beads of sweat on the girls' bodies as they tensed and strained against one another.
Then, lightning fast, one of the warriors leaped up and clapped her legs around the redhead's waist, squeezing with all her might. Her veiled head reached back as she exerted herself on the poor captive, who moaned in pain. The girl strained all the harder to free her arms but they were held fast in place and she could do nothing but endure the pressure. The girls in the crowd cheered quietly, a malaise of vicarious thrill and sanctimony.
"You expect me to stand here and watch this!?" Hamish erupted, starting forwards, but he was stopped by two veiled amazons who casually prevented his advance as if he were a pup being shooed away from food on a table.
"Yes. You need to learn our ways." Sophitia declared without even looking at him. "You have the power to stop this, as a Scion."
"Then stop it, for fuck's sake!"
"My job is to ensure it happens. If you want it stopped, you 'll have to do what you must. A scion names an amazon to serve them."
The crowd gasped as the redhead bucked and writhed in a desperate bid to fight back. Hamish watched appalled and intrigued as she grew frenzied and, despite outnumbering her, seemed to worry her captors who's bodies glistened with exertion trying to maintain their mastery. The girl screamed with effort as she finally got an arm free and pushed against the legs around her waist. But the second jailor simply latched on like the first, this time trapping her arm inside the cast-iron hold of her legs. Hamish was spellbound as his incredible saviour fought with every sinew and exploding muscle to resist an inevitable fate. She stood helpless bearing the weight of both attackers as they began to squeeze, stubbornly refusing to collapse despite weakening by the second. The jailors' muscular legs bulged as they exerted force together, two scissorholds locked in position. The girl wheezed and whimpered as the pressure mounted, sinking to her knees.
Sophitia's hand squeezed his shoulder urgently. "The penalty for a crime of this magnitude is death. She will be tortured first. She will resist. This ordeal could last hours. You could stop it but with a word. Do you not know the feeling of destiny?"
"Alright!" Hamish screamed, ducking beneath the grasp of the wardens and sprawling into the circle. The crowd gasped again and the drums stopped. The two torturers turned, still holding his saviour who now gasped desperately for air in the sudden pause. The soldier picked himself up and staggered toward them. They looked around uncertainly, and one of the Priestesses snapped an order, but was countermanded by Sophitia who held an arm out for silence. "My name is Hamish Westerley. I'm a lieutenant in the Argonian Defence Force."
He heard Sophitia translating for the crowd, though it seemed as though the other priestesses understood his words. "I arrived here three days ago on a special mission to find people who live in this jungle. You, I think. My mission was ambushed and destroyed. I was wounded, I thought I was dead. This woman saved my life."
A murmur ran through the crowd. Hamish took a breath to continue, but someone behind him interrupted; "Then what is her name?"
He turned to see a priestess in black robes and dark hair raise an accusing finger at him. "She ventures to save your life, as if you are her master. So I ask you what is her name?"
"She..." He was interrupted by Sophitia.
"His story is still untold." At this, the other seemed to relent.
"...She welcomed me into this village. Cared for me. Restored me to health. Showed me great kindness."
"And affection!" shrieked one of the priestesses, and repeated the remark in their own tongue. Others joined their voices in accusation. "She sought to cheat the Sacred Bond!"
The black-robed Priestess stood forth again to speak. "She treats you as only a master should be treated. Yet you have not named her. You do not speak for her. Her actions lie outside the Sacred Bond and she has defiled our law. You were not to know. But she knows better. The punishment is death!" An excited cheer rose from the crowd and the torturers prepared to finish their work. "I, Isabella of the Warding Eye, call on my sisterhood to affirm this proclamation."
"Her name is Natasha!" Hamish screamed. Stunned silence descended across the circle. Excitement faded to sheepish guilt and uncertainty. There were noises of discontent from the crowd.
Isabella, the priestess in black, viewed him scathingly but finally rose her chin in grudging acknowledgement. "So it is. The rites will be observed tomorrow. There will be challenges, I expect. Your fate, and that of the other intruders, will be decided then."
The crowd began to disperse. Natasha, now released, curled into a hurt ball as her jailors melted back into the crowd. She fell into him as he wobbled forward and knelt beside her.
"I knew you were my master," she breathed "I knew Vitalia would not abandon me. Say my name again, please."
"Natasha." he whispered into her ear, and made to help her stand - but to his astonishment, she cupped a hand under his knees and picked him up as she stood, cradling him tight to her body. The look on her face made him wonder if she had been in any pain at all moments before.
Sophitia kept her distance and her gaze was like a hawk on the fawning couple. "Tommorrow will be a hard day, Natasha. You must rest."
Hamish felt her nod silently and looked at the priestess. "What do you mean?"
"This was but the first reaction to your trespass. Tommorrow the Masters will respond. There will be trial by combat."
"What?!" Hamish shouted, but Natasha hushed him with a kiss.
"I'll be fine Master. They can't keep me from you." She raised her head to talk to Sophitia. "You'll have the talk with him? Like we promised?"
"We will have it now, Natasha."
"I love my name! I get a thrill whenever I hear it. What does it mean?"
Hamish felt a familiar panic setting in as he finally realised this was not part of a dream, but a bizarre turn his life had taken. He was wounded, lost in uncharted lands, in the mercy of unknown peoples, and now he felt like he had accidentally married through some obscure tradition. There was still a war on, and his mission to consider. But he could not deny the excitement and anticipation emanating from and surrounding his new ally. "Strength. Natasha means strength." Natasha laughed and kissed him again. Sophitia smiled, bowing her head as if to conceal the lapse in composure. When his mouth was free, he looked up at the priestess accusingly. "What did they mean, 'other intruders'?"
Sophitia hesitated. "There have been others who found this place. They dressed like you."
Hamish leaped to his feet, steadying himself with a hand on Natasha's shoulder. "Where? I have to see them!"
"No." Sophitia warned. "Right now, you must become a Scion."
"I am responsible for those men!" Hamish hissed, and now Natasha stood, her gentle arms holding him back from the Priestess.
"They are quite safe. They have been subject to much the same treatment as yourself. Have you any complaints?"
"Aside from being lied to and kept from my mission?" Hamish growled, but he felt Natasha's arms recede and he looked at her guiltily. "No, I have no complaints. I just wish I'd been informed so I could have spoken with them."
"It was not possible, to keep you all secret and avoid...this. Such a meeting would have been impossible to keep quiet. As it stands...I expect I myself will be challenged on the morrow. We will have to work very hard to keep our station here. I was a fool to think I could subvert the status quo here but...the other masters...when you meet them, I hope you will understand."
"Sounds like they have a lot to answer for. Tell me how to get these answers."
"Follow." Sophitia gestured for them to begin their descent back down the plateau.
-
PART 7:
The village did not sleep much. Natasha took Hamish to a stone building overhanging the cliff face. It had a tower, from which a rope bridge connected it with the larger complex up the plateau. It was cut from the same stone, and had the same etchings and metal fittings as the Priestess' quarters, but on closer inspection the tower became a statue of a powerfully built battle maiden, wrapped round by a snake. Braziers burned at the entrance and at the foot of the statue. Passing into the small building Hamish found it was deceptively open. The stone of the floor was smooth but intricately etched with labrinthine patterns that looped and seemed to form concentric circles, each with their own patterning and style. The corners of the room were hewn stone pillars with long, angular carvings along their lengths. A round space in the wall allowed the sky to pour into the room, but being night, it was the braziers providing a ruddy light. A bronze bowl for offerings, or perhaps burning, was set into a ceremonial table at the end of the room beneath the circular window. It looked as if the building were carved from one block of stone, but Hamish doubted that was possible. Sophitia advanced to the centre of the room and struck a stance of obeisance, arms held wide and head reaching back. "Mighty Goddess, bless this Sacred Bond and give your daughter the strength to prevail in your honour."
With no further word or warning, Natasha threw herself onto the floor and began doing push-ups. Meanwhile Sophitia performed a strange dance of exaggerated movements, that seemed to require a great deal of balance, flexibility and finesse. The object seemed to be about forming shapes with the body, but...the motion was hypnotic. Hamish could only watch, bemused and aroused, between the lithe Priestess and the soft exertions of his red headed saviour, for a few minutes until the Priestess bowed and backed away from what was apparently an important ritual point in the floor. She turned to Hamish.
"There is much to learn, Scion, and not long to teach it. I would not stand on that ankle." The Priestess held out her arms, offering to carry him.
"You can sit on me, Master, and help me pray!" Natasha chimed from the floor. At this the Priestess' offer became a gesture toward his guardian.
The soldier shifted uncomfortably. "I'll stand for now, thanks."
Sophitia drew a breath and began to explain the situation. "There are four of your companions in our custody. Illegally, just as you are. Like you, they had all been found by our foragers and huntresses, and like Natasha here, they all sought my advice on how to proceed. They knew that I was the least orthodox of the Sisterhood, and my interpretation of our laws the most broad and forgiving. I think they wanted to know how they could subvert the Sacred Bond. For my part, I feel this was necessary to challenge the reign of the Masters, who have ruled apathetically for many years."
"I don't understand. What did you intend to accomplish by keeping us secret from each other?"
"That was merely to help us keep you secret from the village. Each of these acts was a serious violation of the Sacred Bond. So far the Sisterhood do not know it was at my orchestration, but they will find out tommorrow when all of the other maidens are tried and punished."
"And what about my men?"
"They too will be tried. The Sisterhood will have to decide whether they are a threat to the village or not, and how complicit they were in trying to subvert the Sacred Bonding rituals. The masters will try to rule that they are usurpers and should be exiled or killed. The Sisterhood will argue that they were not to know of our ways and that the maidens who took them into their care unlawfully are the culprits."
"So...those girls will have to go through what nearly happened to Natasha?" He watched his guardian counting her pushups past forty.
"Possibly. They may also be exiled. But as I hope you agree, would it not be better for the natural bond formed between them and their rescued wards to be preserved and continue?"
"Well...yeah, that makes sense to me. But I'd have to talk to the men to get their perspective."
"Yes. And if I may, I have a request. I want you to convince them to follow your example by naming their amazons. This way they can be lawfully integrated into the village, and the maidens will be spared any punishment."
Hamish rubbed his forehead tiredly. "I still don't understand how some random guys coming in and naming one of your maidens makes any of this OK. That's pandemonium. What if I was a Larinthian?"
"It doesn't make anything OK. It makes it formal. By naming your maiden, you begin to participate in the formal rituals. There will be much resistance, but if all challenges are met and surpassed, there is a way through. I can only trust on the amazons to prevail, as you must trust Natasha to fight to keep you."
"Whoa, whoa, what the hell?"
"I said there would be trial by combat. These maidens have tried to jump a queue of thirty five love-starved, eager rivals. They will all try to stake their claim to the same right to Bond with you. This matter will be resolved through combat."
Hamish glanced nervously at Natasha, who was counting past seventy five."Well...how....will they even score that?"
Sophitia sighed again, and explained. "You will most likely be the subject of a melee. All of the contestants, including Natasha, will participate. Whoever has possession of you at the end will have won the right to bond with you. You cannot refuse the winner, probably on pain of death in this case."
Hamish winced as he tried to comprehend what he was now involved in."...has possession of me!?"
"It may take the form of having to keep you off the ground for a certain period, proving you are in their care, or having to take you to a certain hard-to-reach spot despite the other contestants."
"So I'm basically the ball in a very competitive, every-woman-for-herself game of rugby?"
"I don't know what rugby is, but everything else you said is correct."
"It's not to the death is it?"
"No, but amazons have perished in particularly bitter contests."
Natasha hit one hundred push ups and rolled over to do leg raises. "It'll be fine master, I won't let anyone hurt you."
"It's not me I'm worried about!" Hamish snapped. "It's you! I know you're a toughie and you can do a shitload more pressups than me, but thirty five others? They'll murder you!"
At this the redhead paused her exercise and looked at him, hurt. Then she resumed with greater determination but no more words. Sophitia tutted quietly and it dawned on Hamish that he had made a substantial faux pas. The Priestess did not dignify him with eye contact. "It's nice that you are concerned about her safety, but try to have some faith in your new servant, Master Hamish. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must check on the others before this gets out of hand." Sophitia took her leave of the couple, and for a while the only sound was Natasha's quiet exertions on the floor. She reached one hundred leg raises quickly and rolled over to assume a planking stance. Her body was glistening with sweat but her breathing seemed to be very calm. Hamish had to remind himself of the agonies she had endured only twenty minutes, maybe half an hour before.
Aware of his gaze, Natasha spoke. "Help me pray, Master." Hamish couldn't gauge whether it was an invitation or a command as he approached her prostrate form, her bodyweight held on tiptoes and forearms. There was no one around, but he still felt this dynamic was bizarre - but beyond that, he recognised his own arousal. The impossible proportions of her body, the stunning physique, and now this amazing woman was dedicated to him somehow? He was still wrestling with his desires and conscience when she looked at him. "Get on my back." She said, gently. She seemed to read his hesitation at every turn.
"But it'll be harder for you?"
She snorted with laughter. "That's the point! I want to show you my strength. Hop on." At first he perched perpendicular on her buttocks and the small of her back, and she giggled.
"Come on master, lie on my back. You're not going to feel anything from there." Finally Hamish straddled her waist and laid his head between her shoulder blades, letting his full weight settle on her. She might as well have been a beast of burden for all the change that affected. He ran his hands up her sides, across her broad shoulders, and down her bulging arms - tensed as they were bearing their combined weight. He listened to her powerful heartbeat, felt her breath coming and going like a calm tide.
"I don't think I've caught up to everything." the soldier sighed "I feel like I've done nothing but cause you a lot of pain and trouble, just by showing up. You rescued me, and I've got nothing to thank you with."
"You named me master. That's thanks enough. Now I can rescue you whenever you like."
"But you have to get beaten up tommorrow. Because of me."
"I walk the path of Vitalia."
"Is that really all there is to it? I'm not responsible in any way for the bad things happening to you? What's so special about having a name if it means you're bound to some g-!?"
She interrupted him with a sudden pressup. "What's so special about the war you're fighting?"
"That's a duty!"
"Yes. It is."
"But I can still walk away if..." The soldier checked himself as he realised what he was saying. Could he really abandon his country, his family? Knowing as he did that they would lose, and knowing as he did that the Larinthians were slave-driving tyrants? For certain everyone would assume he was dead if he didn't make contact with anyone after a month. He could simply disappear in this place where he had found beauty and desire. But still the iron casts of training and authority asserted themselves in his mind. The enemy were here too, this was a front in the same war he was fighting, and however hard the road home may be there was good he could do, some way, somehow. As he rose and fell with his lovely guardian, he kissed her neck. "I think I know what you meant. You can't just turn your back on what you know."
"So master, how may I serve you?"
Hamish laughed at the absurdity of his situation, but he felt decision curing like concrete in his heart. "By getting some rest. To bed with you. We've got a hard fight ahead."
So Hamish ended his fifth night of willing captivity.
<the story changes perspective to other characters for a while now, if this guy was getting a bit boring>
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PART 8:
CHAPTER 2: WALLY'S LANDING
Walliam Gardener took a moment to take in the view as his Sparrowhawk duster broke through the cloud cover, revealing a fantastic dawn sky. Pink clouds illuminated by a calm, bright sun contrasted with a disappearing blue sky in which the last stars were just beginning to fade. The view was blighted by a Walrus transport barging rudely into his perspective from below, its twin engines growling fiercely.
“Wiseman this is Echo one, time to target, over?”
“Echo one, Wiseman. We’re not there yet. Out.”
Same response. Everything about this mission had been hushed up, but from the flight path and bearings Wally knew that their destination was somewhere in Fantera. Why? There was nothing there but jungle – impenetrable jungle surrounded by mountains that threatened to spear the heavens. Their planes had gargled and protested climbing above the highest peaks. Now they were gently descending. Wally’s four Sparrowhawks were on escort duty for the unwieldy walrus, although who was likely to intercept them out here was anyone’s guess.
The four fighters alternated between sweeping circles around the perimeter of the flight group and staying on the mark with the Walrus, two by two. Their flight had lasted for two hours already and they had a return journey of similar distance just to make an emergency landing at an improvised field in Argon, specially created for this mission. The fighters were carrying extra fuel pods that were due to be dumped any minute now. The Walrus could simply carry on, chugging away through the skies like a placid beast of burden.
Wally’s radar pinged, indicating a new contact. His radio came alive with traffic.
“Echo One, Wiseman. We’re reading multiple contacts on our twelve o’clock, below us and closing. Move to intercept.”
“Wilco Wiseman, Echo flight engaging.” The pilot had already pushed his throttle to battle speed. The four fighters surged down beneath the larger transporter and attacked in a tight group. Breaking beneath the clouds they found a wave of strange, arrowheaded aircraft that didn’t seem to have the wings or cockpit required for flight. As Wally drew a bead on them he was stunned to hear a deafening boom and thought he’d been hit by anti-air fire, but in fact the tiny aircraft had rushed past them on rockets. Missiles?
“Echo 4, I’m hit, I’m hit!” Wally turned in a wide sweep and could only watch as one of his men hurtled to the ground in a flaming wreck. Most of the aircraft had simply passed them by, now invisible having punched through the clouds above. Another was following one of his wingmen and he latched onto it, cursing as his plane was outmanoeuvred at every turn, the tiny enemy jinking and weaving even as it tried to land a solid hit on his compatriot.
“Echo 2, climb, climb, climb!” He shouted, and as his wingman turned upwards, so did his enemy. The opportunity was perfect and Wally loosed a volley of fire that shook the thing apart. His third wingman had no time to vocalise anything but a scream as his plane exploded in mid air. Meanwhile the two remaining aircraft rose to protect the Walrus.
Breaking cloud cover once more, Walliam cursed as the Walrus descended sharply past them, guns hammering on all sides. One engine was ablaze and the rocket-powered darts harried it from all sides. He intercepted two of them, catching them quite unawares, and sent another to the floor trailing smoke. His wingman chased another around the Walrus and into his line of fire. Between them they blasted it into smithereens. But the enemy had the numbers and only needed a few moments to disable the Walrus’ other engine. As the big aircraft disappeared beneath the clouds, Wally passed his wingman overhead and followed it down. He heard a chatter of cannon fire and an explosion, and with a sinking feeling realised he was now alone.
He had no idea who these new enemies were. They didn’t act like pilots. They handled inhuman G-forces but fought predictably, being thrown out by rises and turns. Their craft were faster than his, there was no way to outrun them. A dart caught his scent and hounded him through the clouds, tracking him even though visibility was obscured. Wally rose sharply to confuse the adversary and sure enough the bolt-shaped craft passed below, and as he hugged the cloud ceiling he could see the Walrus going down. Parachutes were forming in a loose pattern and the aircraft was pitching to one side, arcing away toward the jungle floor. Someone jumped out on fire.
He activated his distress beacon, knowing that no one would be able to help him but someone might at least know they had been destroyed. As if in response, a small flight of darts swept round to meet him head-on. “Come on then, you sorry fucks...” he growled, thumbing his firing catch and sending two spinning away to explode. The third however chewed through his right wing and destroyed the flap, ruining his ability to sustain flight. Hastily disconnecting the fuel pod, Wally found he was able to maintain flight stability if not stay in the air. Searching desperately for somewhere to land, his eyes crossed dozens of miles of solid jungle, as far as the eye could see in each direction. It folded and dipped with the landscape, but it was only a thin cutting that gave him a glimmer of hope. A river!
He let the plane take its course, acting for all the world as if he had been killed in the cockpit and the plane was unguided. It seemed to work. None of the strange craft followed him. The Sparrowhawk spluttered and stumbled, drooping in the air. Carefully he bounced the plane to pick up airspeed and increase glide agility. Then he made his move. Banking as sharply as he dared to the left, he followed the course of the river, taking the plane down to tree-top height and killing its speed as much as he could. He looked up to see in horror that he was flying upriver toward a waterfall, cascading down from a cliff face. In an urgent bid to climb he gunned the engines but they exploded in smoke. The upward glide exhausted the airspeed he had left and the plane simply dropped out of the sky. His half-planned landing saw the plane bite into the river and cartwheel, slamming tail-first into the cliff wall.
All was black.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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This is very good, keep going!
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This is very good, keep going!
Thanks for your support :)
I have plenty more. I will be going quiet for the next week or so but I will leave some more installments before then!
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PART 9:
At first Wally thought he had pissed himself. Then he thought he was bleeding to death. But when he came round, whiplashed and horribly bruised, he found that the ruins of his Sparrowhawk were starting to sink into the pool below the waterfall and his nose was bleeding from the impact. Water lapped around his waist, crimson tendrils dispersing where it passed blood flecks on his flight suit. In a frenetic hurry he flapped at his seat belt, which had jammed in the collision and wouldn’t release him. He had to forcibly remember his boot knife, which he then used to feebly saw the thick leather harness. By that time he was up to his chest in water, and he tried next to fight the canopy, which had been cracked by a pressure strike and was utterly jammed. As the water rose the chances of opening it dimmed. In desperation he retrieved his pistol and, sparing no thought for what the water contamination might have done to it, shielded his eyes and fired point blank at the cracked canopy. Fortunately for him the panel shot through with a deafening crack, and a rush of fresh air swept in. At least now he could breathe until the canopy was full of water.
With the window shot through, he could hear a helicopter nearby and knew the Larinthians had come to inspect the crash site. He now produced his flare pistol from its holster up on his chest and fired it through the window into the air. Sure enough, the helicopter approached. Captivity, surely, would be better than drowning. A Larinthian in elaborate armour dangled from a winch and set foot on the sinking plane, causing it to rock uncertainly. A trueblood - Patricians of the Larinthian Empire, noble citizens, slave drivers. The man tried the canopy but between them it wouldn’t budge. By now, Walliam was up to his neck. The trueblood was about to attach a winch clamp to the canopy frame but something on his radio caused him to look around urgently. Then he saw something and clipped the hook to his harness, spoke into his radio and was taken back up. Despite Gardener’s frantic protests, the helicopter banked away. Spitting out his first mouthful of water, he pressed his face to the hole in the canopy and screamed for help. He took a last gulp as the fuselage slipped beneath the surface.
The pool was not deep as no sooner had it sunk, the plane thumped against the slimy rock bed. But it was now entirely submerged. Wally thumped against the canopy with the last of his strength, hoping the water pressure would have changed something about the blockage, but to no avail. As he strained and clawed at the armoured glass, something collided with it, almost nose-to-nose with him. A face. A beautiful woman’s face. Pale skin contrasted with black hair that fanned out like an amoeba in the water. Round breasts in a purple tankini top that squashed against the glass. She smiled at him through the water and he hammered on the canopy in desperation. The girl took a moment to study the strange container. She tried to pry the canopy off using the hole he had made by shooting a panel out. To his amazement she succeeded in distorting the frame a little and cracking the glass further. As he approached blackout, she straddled the canopy and wrapped her arms around it, trying to lift the whole thing away. With a scatter of shards and bubbles, she succeeded, and rushed in to kiss him fiercely. To his surprise she sucked all of the burning air out of his lungs and breathed in a gasp of her own. Then she dragged him up to the surface with barely two kicks of her powerful legs. They erupted from beneath the water panting. The girl laughed, but Wally was too breathless even to look grateful. Her wet body nudged against his. He caught her excited gaze and felt himself grinning from ear to ear.
He threw his arms around her. “You saved me! I don’t know how you did it but you saved my damn life!” She laughed and hugged him in a strong embrace that made him groan. “Good lord you’ve got some muscles. How did you know I was down there?”
The girl opened her mouth to answer but they were interrupted by the roar of the helicopter swinging overhead and a rattle of gunfire. All around them the water surged with bullets, and the girl pulled him under water again. He held onto her for dear life as she charged through the water. Bullets cut through the water either side but she emerged the other side of the waterfall in a dark, dank cavern. The girl hurried him to the slippery rocks and stood up out of the water, bringing him up into her arms as she did so. Despite his amazed exclamation, she carried him clinging like a koala to her neck even as a deafening missile strike from the helicopter exploded behind them. Though the rocks were slippery, she ran without faltering.
The cave led to a grotto encrusted with rust-coloured gems, and lit by natural holes in its ceiling. Water clearly ran down them when the weather turned, and had formed intricate steps down to the main body below. It was decorated with animal hides and candles. Fur blankets adorned the floor of the grotto, piled together to make a bed. Here the girl knelt and deposited her sodden cargo. Gardener took a moment to admire his saviour while she studied him in kind. She was built like a sports star, with undulating muscles all over her body. He followed the gorgeous line of her legs from the purple briefs down to her feet. Yet her athleticism did not detract from her femininity, assured by sweeping curves and fine features. Her face was diamond-shaped with gleaming, spotless skin, framed by soaking black hair that fell past her shoulders by a good inch or more. She was tall – taller than him, and he was a lanky 5”10. But for all her muscle and height, there was something compact and petite about her. She wore only a purple tankini top with matching briefs, and being soaked, they clung tightly to her body. His eyes demanded to focus on her impressive breasts, now vacuum packed by her wet clothing. Her green eyes watched him mischievously.
“So, do you come here often?” Walliam joked, gesturing at their setting.
To his surprise the girl responded in broken Lexian. “This my home.” She looked around it meekly, taking a moment to straighten the blanket of furs. “We stay until iron bird go way.”
“Iron bird? Oh man,” the pilot shook his head “that thing out there is a helicopter. Hell-E-copter. An LX13 Vulture to be exact. Fast, solid, well-armed, a little clumsy on the hover but that’s nothing.”
He’d lost the young woman at the pronunciation. “Hell...E...Copter...” she repeated to herself, eyes rolled up as if reading a secret revision guide in her head. “Helicopter.”
“That’s right. And if I had my iron bird out there in the lake, I could bring the sonofabitch down for you. But it’s a total wreck now.”
“You want? I find!” She pointed back to the pool where his plane had crashed.
Gardener laughed again. “No, I don’t think it’ll be much use now. It’s broken.” He made a snapping gesture with his hands, and the girl shrugged disappointedly. “Besides, it’s too big to drag out of the water.”
“No too big. I do it.” She muttered it as if scolded.
The Lexian remembered her strength against the canopy. “Hey, you’re strong. How did you get those muscles?”
She met his gaze all of a sudden and he saw her lips part in surprise and apprehension. She replied coyly. “I swim. Hunt. Dig. Pray.” Walliam cocked his head as he digested this explanation, but another missile strike made them both flinch and sent crumbs of soil down from the holes above them.
“Damn, I thought he’d go away. You know he might land troops to come find us? We should move away from here.”
She looked at him sadly. “Yes. I no safe for you. I go. I lead away. You stay.” She got up to leave immediately, but he called her back.
“Wait! Don’t go. You saved my life. It’s me they’re after. Why don’t you let me lead them off. I didn’t mean to get you wrapped up in all this but I’m sure glad you decided to get involved because...I’d be drowned for sure if you hadn’t.”
She looked back at him fiercely. “I go.”
“No, I go.” Walliam insisted.
She grinned at him, but there was a clatter as a grenade bounced down onto the rock from the earthside passage. “Down!” he shouted, pulling her onto him and dragging the piled hides over. He covered her ears against the noise but his own were shattered by the confined explosion. As he reeled he let go of her. In the confusion after he blurrily watched as she launched herself at two Larinthians who couldn’t fire past each other in the narrow passage. She seized the gun of one and lifted it and him up against the ceiling, then smashed him down onto the other. Two more approached from the lakeside passage and Walliam threw a candle at one, causing him to flinch instead of shoot. The stolen second of time allowed her to drive a fist into his face that sent him flying off his feet back into the other man. As he struggled to his feet the survivor made to raise his weapon but she stepped on it and seized him by his head, lifting him up so that he was level with her. Gardener didn’t remember her looking so tall but now the soldiers seemed like children. The man was weeping in fear.
“Wait...” He said, laying a hand on her shoulder. He couldn't hear the sound of his own voice. She kept hold of her fearful prisoner, absent-minded, as she checked Walliam’s unbalanced gait. Gardener dared to put his hand on her arm again. He couldn’t help but feel a stony bicep beneath her warm, spotless skin. “Don’t." He thought he said. It was like trying to hear himself through a pile of cushions.
He proceeded to strip the prisoner of all useful items – his belt with pistol, his rifle and cartridges, his grenades and armoured harness. Eventually the girl threw him contemptuously back onto the wet stones in the passageway. The man scrabbled away as fast as he could, virtually wailing. Wally set about collecting as much ammunition as he could. He crammed on an assault vest and stuffed it with magazines, grenades, and other supplies.
The girl watched him, bemused, as he retrieved devices and weapons from the bodies. He hadn't seen the violence of war up close like a footsoldier might. In the air you very rarely got to see the face of your adversary - only trails of smoke and sparks of flame. Rolling one body over to search he was given pause by the dislocation of his bloodied facial features. He looked for all the world like a wax statue, damaged by vandals. His neck was broken and he was looking back over his shoulder unnaturally. When he was finished, he stood in front of her, with a ridiculous assortment of pistols, grenades and rifles about his person. She cocked her head at him. He tried speaking again. “You sure are useful to have around." His hearing was returning, thankfully. "I’ll set you on as my bodyguard. Let's get out of here.”
“Bodee...garr...?”
A terrific explosion knocked them both flat and shook the pock-holed cave above them . Wally sprawled flat upon the ground, then with a terrific crack the entire ceiling of the cave collapsed toward him. He started screaming but the girl threw herself across him on her hands and knees. The rock drove down onto her back, making her cry out, but she held firm against its weight even as the surrounding stone gave way and followed suit. As detritus rolled down she moaned through gritted teeth, while Walliam could only curl into as tight a ball as possible and avoid the avalanche. As more and more rock piled onto her back the girl’s arms shook and buckled, then with a desperate clinch of resistance she caught the weight and locked her elbows beneath it. When the clattering rockfall stopped, Gardener hazarded to look at her.
Her eyes were crammed shut against the pain of withstanding the terrible weight, and her lovely skin was shining with sweat. Muscle erupted from every surface as her body shouldered the burden of stones and earth. A tiny noise of escaping breath, fits and starts of breathing, snatched from her gritted teeth. He was completely helpless, his worthless life spared only by her astonishing strength and determination to keep him alive. He put his hands on her hips tentatively, too afraid to interact with her in case it disturbed her concentration, not willing to let her feel alone while she was suffering. Her eyes opened, and although wide with pain and urgency he could see relief. She urged through gritted teeth:“You...go...now...”
He looked around and knew that they were trapped. "I can't. There's nowhere to go."
The girl considered his words and then nodded, and her breath stopped as she brought one foot in and gathered herself for an immense push that slowly, agonizingly forced the rockfall up by another foot as she took the weight on one knee She emitted a guttural sound of exertion that was quickly drowned by rasping draws of breath. “Go!” she yelped.
“What about you?” He asked.
She said nothing but it was clear the rocks were too heavy for her. Her upper body shook as her head bowed under the strain of keeping the weight aloft. “Please...go...!”
Gardener swallowed dryly. “No.” The word almost collapsed the girl, who sank another inch toward him before raising her head angrily to stare down at him. In this state, her body erupting with muscle and her face contorted with strain, she looked terrifying despite her obvious beauty.
“GO!” She bawled.
“No!” He declared, scrabbling to his knees and putting his shoulder beneath the rock beside her. “If you want me to move you’ll have to get out from under that rock yourself. I’m not leaving you down here. If it weren't for you I’d be dead twice over. I surely wouldn’t want to live without getting to know you better, lady.” The girl’s expression dropped to one of profound shock, then she seemed to remember the weight on her back. “Come on, show me what you can do!"
With a final snarl of annoyance and a look that made Walliam feel like his life would soon get much worse, the girl pressed back against the rock with the brute force of a raging animal. She brought her other knee forward, keening gutterally, then used her mighty thighs to press the awful load. Rocks and sods of earth dropped and scraped as she rose to a hunched standing position. Her face was a mask of pure pain and rage, rage caused by pain even, so that the more the weight hurt her the more she wanted to move it. It was terrible and awesome to behold, and Walliam simply stopped his pathetic efforts to help as she held the rock up off of him and shrugged it, contemptuously, cracking down on its side behind her. Then she looked down at him and her eyes were murder.
She reached down and seized him by his throat, lifting him effortlessly and slamming him into the wall. His response was simply to reach out to hug her. As she slowly came to her senses she numbly set him down and let go of his neck, whereupon he stood looking up at her like a lost boy with his arms outstretched. He was only a few inches shorter than her but he felt minute next to her power. Eventually her expression had fallen to a wounded confusion and she stooped to collect him, her arms under his, his around her neck. He was impressed she could still do that after what she had just accomplished. As their embrace grew tighter and more comforting, she collapsed to her knees with him and propped herself against the wall.
“I’m sorry your home got trashed.” He confessed.
“Is ok. We find new.” She closed her eyes and rested against the cold rock for a moment.
“We huh? A minute ago you saved my life, we'd just met - now we're moving in together!” Gardener laughed with exhausted relief. He could see the fading daylight through the hole in the roof, now roughly car-sized. Gardener admired his protector, wondering how a girl so beautiful could be such a strong beast. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, making her stir tiredly. She made a noise that sounded like a cat enjoying itself or a child that resented being woken up. Then, as if remembering something she had forgotten, she grabbed and kissed him fiercely for a long time. The helicopter was gone, and they enjoyed one another in the peace that followed.
“What’s your name?” He asked, seriously after some minutes of fondling.
“You name!” she jabbed a finger into his collar accusatorily.
“Ok, ok, my name is Walliam Gardener. I’m twenty eight, from Twelve Points, Lexia. Everyone calls me Wally. Now its your turn.”
“Yes. Name!” She wriggled on top of him with all of her weight, which was considerable.
“Name you? Don’t you have a name?”
“No.” She admitted with a marked change in tone.
Wally’s expression became confused. “How did that happen?”
The girl looked him in the eye sadly, her voice dropped to a murmur. “I run way.” She paused, summoning the courage to tell a story she’d evidently never told before. “My village...no masters. I wait so long. I pray. No come."
"I don't follow. There's no one at your village? They left and never came back?"
"No, no." The woman closed her eyes in frustration. Wally swallowed dryly, unsure what to say. Silent tears were running down her face.
He touched her lovely skin, chasing the tears away with the crook of his finger. ”I'm sorry. This fucking war. These fucking Larinthians."
“You save!” She pointed indignantly back to the cave where he had made her release the prisoner.
“Not everyone fights because they want to. The Larinthians have an army of slave-soldiers. Some are evil, some are just scared of what will happen if they don’t fight. That guy is probably never going to pick up a gun again. Isn’t that better than killing him?”
She said nothing but kept her gaze locked with him for a while. Eventually she blinked and smiled. “You have big heart.” Her statement was punctuated with a peck on the cheek and a cuddle. Wally had to purposefully extract his head and rest it on her shoulder so he could reply.
“Yeah, well you have a big...everything.”
They both laughed as she grabbed his head and pulled it down into her plunging cleavage, totally muffling his excited protests. She rolled over with him so that he was on top now, and after a few minutes of ticklish giggling, she let him raise his head and breathe oxygen again.
“So...you ran away before you were named? You must have been tiny.”
She shrugged. "Only one winter since I run."
"Only one winter ago? Well, how old are you?"
"Twenty winters."
Wally frowned as he processed the information. "You mean to tell me you haven't got a name ?"
“No. Few masters in village. No want weak amazon. No protect.”
“Masters...you mean misters, right? Men?” Wally's mind leaped to fables about the jungle being dominated by warrior women and began to realise he was touching legend.
She nodded and rubbed her nose against his. “Like you.”
“And the men name the women?" The girl nodded sullenly. "That seems a little one-sided. Don’t your parents have anything to do with it?”
“No parents. Only sisters.”
Wally frowned in utter bewilderment. The language gap was starting to cause problems now, he was evidently misinterpreting some of what she was saying. By the sounds of it there was no family structure at all. She sensed his confusion and stroked his struggling head.
“Umm...well, I can’t just say ‘hey you’ all the time. We should find something you like, if you really don’t have a name yet...”
She shook her head stubbornly and smiled up at him “No. You choose.”
“But I don’t want to pick something and then you think it’s a daft name...”
The girl rolled him over in frustration and concentrated her considerable weight on him. “Say!”
“Ok, wait a second..." As she watched him intently, his mind voided. "...damn this is hard."
"Say!" She snapped eagerly, but as he gaped for lack of any answer she touched his face pleadingly. "Please say."
Wally sighed in exasperation. "You look like you should be called...” he winced as the girl fidgeted on him excitedly. “...Tanya? Does that sound good to y-”
But she cut him off with a succulent kiss.
-
This story is amazing!!! Love it! :cool2:
Thanks!
I've decided that the work I've done on additional characters' storylines doesn't balance out or help with continuity, so I'll be pausing to work on them - including Wally's timeline. So in addition to my week away I may take a few more days before posting anything more. But it'll come :)
-
Wally clipped, hooked and pocketed whatever he could carry in his flightsuit, while Tanya bundled the rest of her modest belongings and their scavenged equipment into the leather hides and furs, tying them in a bundle. Carrying the heavier share, she still insisted on staying below and boosting him when necessary to get out of the caved-in grotto. They emerged partway up the rocky face that the waterfall tumbled down. The water was roaring nearby and these stones were greasy and moss-laden thanks to the bountiful spray from the nearby course. Wally had assumed they would circumnavigate the cliff face, but seeing no path down or up, it dawned on him that his new friend intended to climb. She led the way cheerfully and the Lexian dry-gulped and prepared to face a new challenge.
He made encouraging progress for a time, as some of the rocks were manageable boulders roughly chest-high and he was able to hug, wriggle and swing across them despite their rounded nature. But larger ones, or worse, protrusions that loomed overhead as he contemplated how to climb them, posed a significant threat. At one point he was faced with a climb that required finger-tip grips relying entirely on his upper body strength while he swung across to a foothold on his right, but his body was starting to ache. He made the mistake of looking back down the path he had come for an alternative, and realised that he wasn't used to seeing heights in this way. He reckoned they were about forty feet up with nothing but unforgiving stone behind him.
"Ohhh....fuck." He mumbled, feeling paralysis set in. Above him his guide with her unwieldy bundle strapped to her body scrambled like a mountain goat up an almost sheer cliff face, making energetic leaps and bounds. Sometimes it seemed as though she were propelling herself with her hands the way a seal might push itself over land. The longer he hesitated the more conscious he became of his grip, the ebbing sensation in his fingers, and what would happen if he made a mistake here. The pilot eyed his destination, trying to focus. It wasn't such a long way. He could do it if he stayed calm. The boulder he was clinging to rounded in such a way that there was a crevice between it and the next handhold - he would have to reach across and take hold, but it would all be on his hands and arms. He knew he had reached the point of no return when his leading foot slipped and found no further purchase. Pausing to summon himself, he took a breath, then launched himself across.
His fingers caught on target but something in his pocket caught and tore away, clattering to the ground. A gunshot and ricochet sounded and he knew it was his pistol, clumsily pocketed and forgotten about during his rescue. He laughed briefly as he recalled the deaf fight in the grotto, how he had thrown a candle at one of the larinthians, but all the time he could have just shot him. The laughter was perhaps borne from the jubilant relief of having made the jump, but then he realised as he clawed around this new obstacle that there was still nothing to hook a foot on. The only way up was with pure arm strength and, try as he might, it wasn't going to happen.
"Shit!" He cursed. This was special forces, not flyboy work. There was a lip just resting on the top of this boulder, but it was out of reach and even if it wasn't, he just didn't have the strength to drag himself up. It was as if his arms were hollow. His body was starting to ache too, it hurt to move his neck, and he remembered painfully he was less than an hour out of a plane crash. A fine way to die, this. Rescued by a girl of his dreams, killed by being pathetic.
As if heeding his mental mention of her, there was scrabbling from above and he saw Tanya's worried face peering down at him from the ledge above. While Wally began to explain his predicament, she lowered herself over the side and hung onto the ledge so that her legs fell level with his head. "Grab on!" She commanded.
"Wh...What, to your leg?!"
"Yes."
Wally knew the girl was strong, superhuman even. But it still felt like a stretch to imagine she was going to hold both their weight (and the bundle still strapped to her back) on just her arms alone. And for some reason it felt wrong. Counter-intuitive. Underneath these absurd trifles was the gutteral fear of surrendering the very vantage your life depended on in hope of gaining a better one - which to someone in the world was a sort of thrill, a form of amusement. But here it was desperately vital.
"Are you sure?" Wally demanded, looking up at her. She seemed to wait deliberately before locking eyes with him, awkwardly over her shoulder.
"Yes, master."
Wally dry-gulped again and reached for her right ankle with his right hand. He was trying to use his knee on the minute incline to create a third point of purchase, but slipped and then his left hand was on her left ankle and his whole weight suddenly on her. Thought he feared the sudden pull would cause her problems she was as steady as a rock and seemed for all the world as if his mortal peril was an easily resolved inconvenience. "Hold tight!"
He was focussed on nothing else as she heaved level with the ledge and then, fist by fist, inched onto it. After a few tiny noises of discomfort, she brought her calves up toward her buttocks, raising Wally so that he was now level with the ledge. Not waiting for him to make the transition, she then slithered across the ledge as its width had run out, meaning that eventually the pilot could simply swing a leg onto the leg and roll to safety. He was totally breathless and flexed his white-knuckled hands, but she simply lounged on an elbow and smiled at him.
They paused for a few minutes to kiss and admire the view. The river spilled below into a rich valley, the one he had flown down. His final approach on compass had been South South East, so by continuing upstream they were heading a similar direction. The jungle spread like a carpet across the place, though openings in its canopy denoted the river's course and areas of marshy delta. They were above the canopy for many miles on either side, and with the exception of some vines and roots that reached out of the cliff face there was only small brush to be found here. Birds cawed as the sun started to set, and Wally lost count of the different variations of their colours.
Tanya decided it would be easiest if he took the bundle and then cling to her while she did the climbing for the pair of them. At first embarrassed and then doubtful of this plan, Wally soon found himself jumping onto her back and holding on for grim life as she rocketed up the cliffs. At his pace the climb might have taken another forty five minutes assuming he could find a route, but at hers it was done in ten. When she clambered over the top of the cliff she paused to survey the river here in its rocky bed. The jungle was thick and oppressive here as well, even more so than below as it was crammed into a bitter contest for the nutritious but constrained silt on the river banks amid the rocks. Those rocks gave way to more and more earthy ground as they began to trek along the riverside. When Wally raised the question of walking using his own two feet, Tanya simply snickered and told him to rest.
He needed it. His neck and back were agonising him and, with the adrenaline and excitement of life or death perils passed for now, a wave of sheer exhaustion came over him. He found himself totally comfortable despite the unwieldly weight tied to his back, and eventually rested his head on an arm, clinging around Tanya's neck idly. He breathed thanks into her ear, and passed off to sleep.
-
The pilot was woken by an abrupt shrug. "Master, wake!"
"Hm? Wha-?"
Tanya crouched and pointed into the brush. To Wally it was an implaccable wall of foliage right up to the river bank. He got distracted noticing there were no more rocks, save for the occasional boulder jutting out from the riverbank. "I don't see anything." She pointed again with a frustrated grunt and the Lexian squinted to try and see through the bushes and trees. There was a foreboding shadow with two light specks gleaming in the undergrowth, and Wally realised they were a pair of eyes watching them.
It all happened so fast. That sliver of a moment of recognition became a flurry of events. The brush shook and Tanya dropped him urgently. There was a scream like a wild cat as he fell to the floor. He heard his guardian issue a defiant yell and by the time he had produced one of the Larinthian carbines from their bundle of looted gear, his sights rested on the black haired girl wrestling with a shimmer-coated, green-furred predator. Tanya had pinned it against her leg but it had sunk its teeth into her arm and pawed ineffectively at her to be released. Grimacing through the pain, the amazon seized the feline - which was nearly six feet long - by its top jaw and began to prise its mouth open. As she released herself the cat swung wildly with its front paws, threatening to break loose, but then the girl snatched a leg around its neck and squeezed, quick and hard. There was a sickening crunch as something broke, and the cat fell lifelessly at her feet. Tanya checked her wounds as she breathed out the panic in snatches of air.
"I have something for that..." Wally muttered, searching through his pockets and finding his aid kit. He sprayed on a disinfectant liberally, causing her to yelp with discomfort, but after a blundering apology she allowed him to bandage the wounds gently. When he was finished she kissed him and then went to the river to wash the spilled blood from her limbs and body, and snatch a few handfuls of water. Wally watched her, on her hands and knees at the water's edge. Her exciting proportions and oblivious confidence - her motions were easy and relaxed even while her body must have required iron discipline to train to its shape - her blase attitude made him smile. He felt a flurry of conflicting memories and emotions. The war, his parents back home, the dogfight yesterday and subsequent crash. That poor burning man jumping out of the doomed Walrus. Of narrowly avoiding drowning thanks to this raven-haired beauty who had risked life and limb to protect him on the mere basis that, he assumed, he was the only man she'd met in twenty years. So it had sounded when she had tried to explain, anyway. It was no dream. It was all too real.
Too real. A rustle from the bushes set all of his hairs on end and he raised the carbine hopefully, covering what he approximated to be the origin of the noise. Another sound, further to the left. Was it the same threat, or were there more than one?
He didn't have to wait long to find out. A rush of movement caused him to fire in panic, sending a shot whipping through leaves in a plume of green shreds. The movement was back to the right, coming straight at him, and he swung the gun round and fired again but this shot was way too low and thudded into the soil. Then the thing was on him, snarling and lashing with its claws. By chance more than skill, the gun caught the cat's pounce and clattered out of his hands as he fell to the ground with it. It went for him with its teeth and he jerked away, sliding his survival knife from its sheath up on his shoulder. As if trying to stop him it stamped a paw there and he felt its claws pierce the skin and rake as it tried to find purchase. But the knife was in his hands and he jammed it up under its chin. The cat snarled and swept its free paw at him but he stabbed up again, and again, hugging the beast closer to stay inside its reach. Eventually it flopped onto him limply. He was covered in blood.
Tanya for her part had intercepted another beast, the one to the left, tackling it even as it rushed from cover to join its pack mate in the ambush. The impact sent them both rolling into the undergrowth where she rose behind the cat with her arms around its neck, squeezing it into crackling submission. When her battle was over, she looked over to Wally and shrieked. Rushing over to haul the dead feline off his body, she found his pale, frightened face clutching a bloodied knife and shaking like a leaf. Her shoulders sagged with relief and she laughed at him.
"You good hunter!"
"Oh," Wally found his humour returning as she pulled him to his feet. "I like to pull my weight."
"Yes, very light!" she beamed with him, then noticed his injuries and took the knife out of his hand. "Is my turn." He hadn't noticed many of the scratches but there were several and they had all drawn blood. She didn't bother with his aidkit, but instead used something from her bundle. It was a sort of poultice made from plant matter, which she pressed into the deeper wounds and blew on the shallow ones. When she was finished she raised his eyes to hers with a finger under his chin. "No playing." She gestured at the wounds and he assumed she meant not to interfere with her work, which was starting to itch as it staunched the bleeding.
As he tried to take his mind off scratching them, his eye settled on the dead feline. It was roughly the size of a human, maybe the same weight but all muscle. He shouldn't have survived the encounter but evidently some untapped survival instinct in him had prevailed over his blinding fear. The creature's skin was mottled shades of green, blending seamlessly with the flora around them. As he studied it Tanya set about skinning them with his knife. She also lopped off the paws, presumably to get at the claws later. Rolling the furs up so the wet sides faced outwards, she attached them precariously to hang from the existing bundle using strips of leather thonging and, when she ran out, vine.
"What are they?" Wally asked absently.
She replied without looking up at him. "Leafcat. Very quiet."
She picked up their bundled equipment then stood with her back to him with her knees bent and her arms out from her sides. He realised she meant for him to climb on her back again, but he laid a hand on her shoulder and she turned.
"I'll walk for now, please. There's no climbing, I should be able to keep up." He stopped to pick up his dropped carbine and set off in the direction
She protested, but eventually conceded and took his hand while she led him through the jungle, following the river upstream always. This was no easy stroll. In places the vegetation was so thick that it needed to be parted, and she used her hands, sturdy sticks, and sometimes his knife to clear a path. The river was deepening and widening, as he found when he tried to take the 'easier' way around a thicket and fell in up to his waist. She hoisted him out with one arm and a giggle and deposited him on the bank where he squelched glumly along behind. Wally still ached terribly from the crash, and it began to hurt just to hold his head high and look where he was going. The pilot was nevertheless determined to press on rather than taxing his guide's boundless strength or generosity further. It occurred to him that he hadn't checked his watch. Although the face had been smashed at some point during his misadventures, the hands were still ticking. It read the time as a few minutes past five in the morning.
"Tanya, were you walking all night with me?"
She turned at the calling of her name and smiled. "Yes."
"So you haven't slept?"
"No."
"Well, aren't you tired? We can stop if you like."
"No tired. You tired?"
Wally hesitated before answering. "No, no, I was just wondering how long we'd been travelling for. You really should have stopped to rest you know."
"No tired!" she protested, as if wounded by the suggestion. "Leafcats kill sleepyheads. I carry now?"
She held her arms out for him and Wally found himself inexplicably looking around in embarrassment. There was no one around of course, and so he let her scoop him up and get underway again. He felt a pang of guilt as he noticed her bandaged arm sweeping his legs up but she made no sound of complaint and handled him as if he were a treasured pet.
"Where are we going?" He asked after a little while of appreciating the comfort of her strong arms and soft, prodigious breasts. She took a deep breath before answering.
"To village."
The pilot sensed the reluctance in her answer. "Your village? The one you ran away from?" She nodded without looking at him. "Well, what happens when we get there?"
Now she looked at him, and it was the first time he'd noticed her approach sadness or fear. "You master. You tell. I run way. Masters in village no like."
"Whoa whoa whoa, I'm your mister, not a fortune teller. I have no idea what's going to happen."
"No mister. Master. You name me. You master of me. You say, I do. So...say."
"How does that work? I don't get to boss you around just because I made up a name for you." At this she shook her head. "So the guys back at the village won't like that you've come back. What does that mean? Is it dangerous? If so, let's not go back."
She made an indecisive noise of thought. "Must go back. Must obey forms. Then we join village. Safer there."
"What forms? What are you talking about? Come on, this is a little weird now. Why would you run away from your crummy home village and then take me back there? Heavens know I wouldn't take you back to my boring-ass spire back in Twelve Points. Why not go to a different place?"
Her heart seemed a little lighter hearing him make light of her dilemma. "Is near. Other village very far. Many Lethys-dogs on way. We need Priestess."
"Ok, this is sounding a little better. So we're going back to the place you ran away from to avoid Larinthians? No helicopters. But what do we need-" As if waiting for its cue, Wally stopped mid-sentence to listen to a familiar and unmistakeable sound. Rotor blades. "Tanya, get us off the river and into cover."
Sensing the urgency in his voice, the amazon responded by taking him carefully into the thick brush and crouching low at the foot of a tall tree. He couldn't see the helicopter but it was definitely a Vulture again, the same kind of gunship that had attacked the grotto where they met. It carried rockets and a cannon for support, but was also troop-capable and could drop a section of eight troops. In this environment they would have to fast-rope down. But although he could trace the direction of the helicopter and its bearing, he never glimpsed it. It was too low and too slow to be passing by, but there was no way they could know where they were. Most likely it was following the river, but then why bother moving at search speed unless it was searching? He tried to imagine what would have happened after the foot patrol got kicked out of the grotto.
The Larinthians would have had frantic radio calls for support, and even though the gunship couldn't help directly, when it became clear that the foot patrol had stopped responding the pilots most likely delivered their payload as a revenge thing. He'd seen junior pilots do it and probably done it himself a few times in his early flying days. Seeing the grotto collapse the helicopter would have gone back to base to resupply. By the time it came back, there were no bodies to be found, but a follow-up team would or should - if the enemy were diligent - have been sent out to confirm kills.
Finding nothing, they would then initiate search procedures, which would have to cover an area based on their projected speed. In any event the river was a primary landmark for a search and it was Standard Operating Procedure for any form of survival and navigation. Although he was taught to avoid rivers, it wasn't exactly his call, and in any event trying to make progress in the jungle proper would be slow work indeed.
But that still didn't explain why it was searching. What, were they leaning out of the canopy trying to scry for them in the jungle below? Something was gnawing at him about the helicopter, a rumour about emerging technologies from back at the airbase. Some Dafnese special forces guys had been talking about a Larinthian helicopter that could find them even though they were using adaptive camouflage during a night op. The Lexian flyboys didn't believe them, said there was no way it could have seen them and that when you're being shot at by a 30mm cannon, it can seem like every bullet is meant for you. But they nearly started a brawl over it, the Dafnese troops were adamant that the helicopter was able to see them. But if it were true, how were the guys alive to talk about it? They surmised it must have been some kind of powerful thermal imaging system fine enough to detect the ambient heat of their camo cloaks and make out the profile of a man. If that were true, it could see Wally and Tanya no problem. But as he imagined trying to see what they could see, he reasoned that in their huddled shape they probably didn't look like two people curled up together, and the hides were further breaking up their profile.
The helicopter had stopped and Wally listened intently for any change. But if anything it just sounded like it was drifting closer, inch by inch. His tension was misleading him. He resolved to stay very still in Tanya's arms, and urged her to do the same, tucking everything in at the base of their tree. As an added precaution he fiddled with the leafcat furs and draped one over them to further mask their profile. They waited. The Vulture waited. It jinked around them in a circle, clearly trying to get a view. When it passed between them and the river it had space to descend, and the Lexian's heart became deafeningly loud as he saw its nose cannon pointing directly at them. Tanya sensed the threat too, turning underneath the fur hide to interpose herself between the chopper and her ward. After a few very long moments, the helicopter moved away. Wally noted it had stopped not far downriver and was doing the same thing with a different patch of jungle. He reasoned that whatever new technology they had developed to find enemies, it evidently wasn't perfect.
"He's looking away. Let's move." He whispered.
Wally kept hold of the fur and draped it over her back like a cloak as she ran with him, barging through vines and thickets. It took a very long time before the ominous throb of rotors was out of earshot, and in that time there were many stops and starts as Wally tried to determine whether it was moving nearer or not. By the time they were free, the sun was setting. They ate on the move, Wally sharing some emergency rations with her, feeding her by hand. It wasn't great stuff, but it meant they didn't have to stop, hunt or forage. The river had started to narrow again. At its widest he estimated it was about thirty meters across, but as Tanya carried him on and on, and the sun sank below the canopy, it narrowed to around ten. Wally asked Tanya about her village now that the threat of the chopper was passed, but she avoided or was audibly reluctant about answering. Instead she enthused about how the scent of the predators hides they were carrying was keeping other opportunists away, including the Vulture. It took Wally a moment to realise she was joking about the helicopter.
The Lexian realised why when their course suddenly banked upwards. Tanya's stride became a little more purposeful as the ground climbed. They passed the brook where the hill deposited its water into the river course behind them, and here the running water made a delightful babble. The river became more and more rocky again, and louder as it gushed at faster speed over those boulders and outcrops. Light was almost out completely as Tanya stopped and look around her. Here the river had thinned into several different streams that joined from different angles.
Tanya however was looking at the trees and the canopy, and eventually found what she was looking for. She put Wally down, gave him their heavy bundle of scavenged loot, and bade him climb on her back. Then she took a running leap at one of the trees and began to climb it, rock-steady grip with both arms and legs. The tree was thick enough that neither set of limbs could meet around it, but nevertheless she made short work of the climb and they quickly reached a branch cluster some fifteen meters up. She paused and commanded him to step off onto the nearest branch, then writhed around to find one of her own. "Sleep time!" She declared cheerfully, propping herself against the trunk and stretching her long legs out on a thick branch. "Come, sit." She patted her lap and beckoned the pilot over. A little confused, he obliged, unshouldering the heavy bundle and propping it in the nook of another branch before perching on her lap, facing her. The angle of the branch tipped him toward her slightly and his legs hung down either side of her body.
"This cannot be comfortable for you." He said, preparing to move.
In response she simply reached for the furs, untied them, and folded them so that the fur side faced her. Then she raised her body off the branch with him still sitting on it and laid one beneath her as a cushion, and another behind her head as a pillow. "Comfy now." She declared matter of factly, and pulled his head onto her breast.
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Hey Machao6, just wanted to say how absolutely blown away I am with the world you created, fully realized with its own characters factions and mythology. I'm impressed with how different the relationships are between the two couples. You have a true gift, I hope you keep on writing this story and many others. Your work is already a classic in my book and I have been reading femdom stories for 20 years at least. Please never put down your pen!
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There is not enough Karma in the world to reward this masterpiece! Please continue!
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Hey Machao6, just wanted to say how absolutely blown away I am with the world you created, fully realized with its own characters factions and mythology. I'm impressed with how different the relationships are between the two couples. You have a true gift, I hope you keep on writing this story and many others. Your work is already a classic in my book and I have been reading femdom stories for 20 years at least. Please never put down your pen!
When I got my writing degree all those years ago I didn't expect this would be my magnum opus, but I'm certainly glad to have decided to share it with you. Thank you for your kind support!
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Brilliant story, great read and two very independent pictures you have painted. Love the detail and descriptive tone........K+++
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Brilliant story, great read and two very independent pictures you have painted. Love the detail and descriptive tone........K+++
Cheers buddy. Loads more to come. I'm worried it'll be a bit bewildering to read but I'm trying to join all the different threads up!
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It was the oddest night's sleep he had ever had. But as absurd as their positioning had been, he realised that she had arranged things in such a way that she could control his balance on the branch and also stop him from falling - her confidence in her own stability during sleep apparently quite secure. Although he awoke with ghastly pins-and-needles in his legs, it was a small price to pay for being safe from predators in the night. It definitely hadn't done his neck, shoulders or back any favours though either. Wally insisted on finding his own way down from the tree, if only to get some blood moving back into his extremities, but he became stymied by a ten foot drop with only the trunk to climb from. Tanya settled the matter by holding her arms out to catch him, which she did with a laugh. Wally likewise set himself to walking on his own power, and the hill made for tough going. He quickly found himself panting for breath, but he waved off his kind guardian's offers to simply carry him.
"How far is it anyway?" He demanded, pausing to keel over and catch his breath.
"No far. We there today."
It wasn't until Wally looked behind them that he saw their ascent was quite profound. Below and behind them the river wound away, broadening to include an island before curving out of sight. It was hard to tell distances in this place, with foliage encasing all sides, but from here to just that corner he estimated the distance at three miles or so. He also noted the strange light - dawn had broken somewhere, but here it was merely a pale twilight. His watch had been shattered in the plane crash and his only measure was the sun itself, which was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it was four or five in the morning.
They pressed on. Tanya stopped to point out interesting things, and forage nuts, berries and mushrooms that she offered to her ward. She also stopped him from walking into a snake hanging from a branch, and paused their travel so as to allow a large, low-slung lizard crawl on its way out of their path. This place - Fantera as it was named on the maps - was beautiful. If it weren't for the war, there would be people clamouring to visit in fairer times.
Or would they? Everyone had heard the legends. Tribes of warrior women? Check, apparently. Man-eating wildlife and plants? Maybe, maybe not. The existence of Tanya seemed to keep the more fanciful stories in the realm of tangibility. He had seen her accomplish feats of strength no normal person would cope with, and her endurance was simply breathtaking. So that meant other things - like cannibal giants, gargantuan monsters and maybe even sentient plants might be out there.
The sound of rotor blades made him bristle. He heard them immediately, having been enjoying the ambience of their surrounds, and Tanya looked at him for guidance. He led her to a tree and crouched beneath its canopy, hoping for the best. The helicopter - another Vulture - was not near them and it was moving slowly. He realised why when it passed them and started to descend. It was actually about level with them, hovering over the water, and Wally reminded himself to breathe as he remembered the barracks talk about thermal imaging and sensor suites. But if it had seen them it would have opened fire, and it did not, then a minute or two later it rose and flew off. Tanya squeezed his hand and the Lexian racked his brains for what it was all about. Then he heard voices below them in harsh, gutteral Larinthian. It had been fast roping a search party!
"We have to move." He ordered, and the amazon picked him up and headed uphill once again.
There were women in the party following them. He could hear their voices, shrill and high by comparison. And something was moving through the tree canopy, clattering through leaf and branch. Tanya could hear it too and cast a nervous glance behind them. "Keep going," Wally urged. He had thought they would easily outpace them at his guardians' unyielding tempo, but knowing they were in the canopy above raised an unknown. A dog barked, and Wally added another factor to his situation. Tanya was running now, clawing her way up the hill even as it grew steeper yet.
Wally knew they could scent their trail with the dogs, and in any event moving fast while heavily laden as she was even an amateur could track Tanya's path. They were relying on her speed and stamina to keep ahead of the pursuers, who by now must have found their quarry. He listened to their exchanges echoing under the jungle canopy and wished he'd taken the time to learn the enemy's language. He recognised a word here and there - unflattering adjectives and cursewords, enough to tell him they had found what they were after. He suddenly felt completely helpless as he realised the only thing keeping him from certain capture - again - was Tanya. If he tried to make his own way he would be too slow, but by staying in her arms he was making life hard for her. Not that it seemed to be showing. She was breathing hard now but far from breathless. They both heard something in the canopy close behind, but as they turned to look something ripped through the air past them and embedded itself in the ground. An arrow?
Wally searched for their attacker and heard a woman's shrill call summoning the rest of her squad to their encounter. He spotted her then, a lithe huntress in full camouflage, sporting a headset with an eyepiece that had three lenses on it. She carried a crossbow that she now nocked a fresh bolt into, and a motor wound back its serving. On each hip she carried a compact quiver of bolts, and on her chest rig she carried a knife. Wally lurched his pistol over Tanya's head to fire, but by the time he had the huntress had moved, swinging like an acrobat from a branch down below, then fearlessly on to another on a tree closeby. The branch did not hold her, but before it broke she was using her momentum again to swing up. Wally fired again, then again, but both times her unpredictable movement thwarted his aim. Then she fired her crossbow again, this time at a tree on the opposite flank, and let herself be pulled toward the lodged bolt by some kind of squealing motor. Then she simply disappeared. He knew he must be behind a trunk, but a fierce growl drew his urgent attention elsewhere.
A squat, powerful looking mastiff was thundering up on them and Wally snapped off three shots in a hurry, winging the dog but not stopping it. Empty. "Fucking revolver!" he cursed, and Tanya made a worried noise. The Lexian wrestled with the scavenged equipment in the bundle rattling on her shoulder and produced a carbine, but as he aimed it at the dog it was already mid-pounce, teeth bared, heading for his guardian's ankle.
"Dog!" He warned, and Tanya spun on one foot, the other out in a broad kick that caught the mutt in mid-air and sent it whimpering off into the undergrowth, where it shook itself off in confusion.
Someone fired at them from down below, the bullet chipping a tree as they passed it, and Wally fired back. The distant enemies were just shapes in the undergrowth, flashes of gold and white, but the canopy above seemed to be constantly moving with unseen pursuers and he had no idea how many of those strange huntresses the enemy had sent.
Another bolt ripped through the air and Tanya raised an arm defensively, with a yelp. To Wally's disgust, a short bolt was protruding from her forearm, a thin trickle of blood all to tell of a shot that would have struck him in the head if not for her quick reactions. Her pace did not falter as she charged forward, the hill now evening out to easier and longer strides. Searching vengefully for his quarry Wally saw the bobbing branches of their movement until finally he found the huntress. He fired a salvo of shots that detonated the branch she was holding onto, and despite a perfect landing, he had grounded the enemy. He drew aim and fired again but she somersaulted back into cover, then Tanya screamed in pain and stumbled forward.
Another bolt had lodged in her shoulder. Wally noted it hadn't passed through her body, like the other before, and that despite the injury she continued running with gritted teeth. He didn't have time to bask in awe however as he grimly fired back into the canopy, hoping at least to put them off their acrobatic strides. As he reloaded, he spoke into her ear.
"Put me down, you're a sitting duck. We have to get rid of these bitches."
"No, village close!"
"Tanya!" Wally shouted firmly, and the amazon seemed to give. She suddenly changed direction, narrowly evading another bolt that shattered on a boulder, and leaped into some bushes where she deposited him with the bundle of equipment.
"Stay." She ordered.
"I'll..." Wally began, but she had already rushed out into the fray. Wally fought his desire to defend her and instead resolved to use her agile distraction to ambush the ambushers. From his secluded spot the enemy had no idea he had been dropped off, or if so where, and that gave him an opportunity to catch them unawares.
But as the pilot watched the battle unfolding he realised he was hopelessly outmatched. Tanya had taken to the canopy herself, shinning her way up a tree and out onto its branches where she caught one of the huntresses by the throat as she swung in to land, and held her for a moment over the twenty foot drop. The pursuers were well-trained. After a moment's shocked discomfort, the lithe huntress swung her legs up into Tanya's face in a well-executed kick that sent her off-balance. The huntress used her crossbow to latch onto a branch above, while Tanya had to swing from her wounded arm and clamber back onto her perch. Meanwhile the other huntress had found a vantage point and now aimed her crossbow at the amazon - and Wally fired, instinctively knowing he wouldn't get a clearer shot. Two shots rang out and the woman dropped like a stone, crashing to the floor with a groan.
Tanya meanwhile grew increasingly frustrated, and snapped an entire branch from the trunk with which to lay about the surrounding canopy. This proved successful, if clumsy, as her opponent had clearly not anticipated or planned for such a strike and was swatted out of the air mid-leap. She fell through some brush and the pilot heard her curse with a grin. He fired on the location, a short salvo of shots. He had no idea of knowing if he hit anything but if nothing else it gave her something else to worry about.
He had been expecting Tanya to rejoin him but when he looked for her again she was being attacked by another Huntress who had leaped onto her back and now tried to jab a wicked looking blade into her neck. With her free hand she exerted a choke and her legs fixed tight around the amazon, but Tanya easily overpowered the knife-hand and squeezed until her attacker screamed and dropped it. As the huntress reinforced her choke hold with wiry limbs locked tight, a fourth came swinging in and immediately launched a flurry of blows and kicks that the amazon staggered to fend off. Finishing the flurry was a lunge with another knife, which Tanya intercepted with both hands. But to her anger the opponent seemed to have anticipated this defence, and now swung her legs up and around to fasten tight about her arms, ensnaring them while the other choked.
Wally stopped lining up his shot for fear of over-penetrating, and instead looked at the branch. It was young and sturdy, but not incredibly thick. Tanya growled defiantly as she forced her arms apart inside the huntress' triangle lock. While he had no doubt she could overpower them both, he was worried by her clumsiness. Her movements seemed desperate and she was losing her balance. Either the choke was particularly effective, or she had lost more blood than it seemed. He weighed the options and decided she would probably be fine with a fifteen foot drop, and fired. He had to fire again to snap the branch, but when it went the two huntresses gasped.
He didn't see the ensuing tussle, but when he ran over to find Tanya the attackers' limbs lay at uncanny angles and their heads were facing the wrong way. A burst of gunfire from below prompted them to keep running, but even as she took him into her arms, Wally could sense her strength was failing. She picked up the bundle and pressed on, but eventually fell forwards reluctantly. The pilot had time to simply stand and tried to catch her, but the amazon was much heavier than he expected and he almost joined her on the floor.
"Master," She wheezed "Go!"
"We don't know each other well, but you know me better than that. Remember the cave-in? Come on, up you get." He struggled to get beneath her shoulder, but she was dead weight.
"Village close." She pointed with a tired arm ahead. It was just more jungle to him.
"Come ON!" He growled, trying to drag her by one arm. They moved a foot before the ground slipped beneath his feet.
"I sorry...master...please go..."
"Fuck off!" Wally screamed, at his pursuers, at her insistence that he abandon her, at his own weakness and incapability. He could hear the Larinthians gaining on them and resolved to make them pay. There was a boulder nearby offering solid cover until he was flanked, so he grabbed a few magazines and picked his field of fire.
Shapes moved below through the bushes and he opened up on them. His first target threw himself flat, unfortunately between two thin trees where Wally shot him twice in the torso. The second fell into a bush out of sight but as the pilot watched he emerged, weapon ready. But he had yet to find Wally and the Lexian was already aiming at him, and a carbine round hit the man square in the face in a pale red mist. The third target was a hulking Trueblood, his hulking armour a dead giveaway even though it had been substituted from its usual gold hue to a tropical camouflage. Wally's shots spranged off the armour in a shower of sparks, and he heard the Larinthian cursing and shouting at his squad for support. Some return fire ensued, an automatic weapon raking the space to his left, then across the boulder itself as Wally ducked for cover. He prepared a grenade and threw it as hard as he could down the hill. Using the suppression of the ensuing blast he sought out another target, a short conscript sprinting for cover. The first shot stopped him, the second shot killed him.
Then he was seized from behind by strong hands that covered his mouth.
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At first he protested. He even tried to fight with his captors. But his emotion gave way to fascination as he watched what ensued. They were women - like Tanya - muscular, beautiful, with very daring fashion sense. Some wore armour - wrought metal with a strange mottled texture, as if it had been beaten with a hammer. Other pieces were intricately etched. Some wore wooden armour of all things, thick bark-laden pieces hung on rope or chains. There were shields too, though it was hard to tell what these were made from but they seemed to be incredibly thick and definitely bullet-resistant. They came on as a unit, four shielded and spear-wielding amazons advancing cautiously down the hill toward the bawling Trueblood and his panicking squad. Wally observed two more swinging through the canopy, who descended on the Larinthians amid a rush of gunfire and alarmed voices.
Beneath the noise the Vulture returned. The Lexian shouted a warning to the amazons but his voice was drowned out by the sound of its cannon firing. The trees above and around them exploded, bullets shearing branches in an inexorable arc. The shielded amazons parted for the cover of tree trunks, and Wally was unceremoniously and effortlessly dragged, swung and fallen upon by his captor - a ponytailed brunette carrying a bow and quiver on her back. The helicopter jinked for a new angle of attack and the interruption had evidently given the Larinthians a window as they scattered in all directions. Wally watched the Trueblood backing away while firing, only to be pounced upon and punched repeatedly by one of the powerful amazons. His armoured helmet seemed to hold up well against the onslaught, but after the sixth blow she moved on to a new target and the Larinthian slave driver did not rise.
The Vulture fired again, trying to gouge a window into the canopy of the trees. The chaingun carved through a trunk and severed it at roughly shoulder-height, and the dislodged tree collapsed downhill even as the amazon hiding behind it ducked lower still. The helicopter waited for a moment, and Wally knew the pilot was letting the dust and smoke clear so he could gauge the situation on the ground. While Wally winced at the prospect of receiving a rocket strike from the chopper's pods, his captor had other ideas. She stepped alongside him with arrow nocked, and loosed a shot contemptuously at the helicopter. Wally stared in stunned absurdity, but as he gawped at the girl there was a waver in the rhythm of the Vulture's rotors. Looking again he could see the arrow had punched through the canopy and must have struck the pilot, as the helicopter idled and turned slowly in the air. Wally saw as it turned side-on that the crew were silhouetted against the morning sunlight, and he watched the co-pilot struggling to bring the helicopter back under control. A second arrow pierced straight through the canopy - the armaglass canopy - and skewered him. Wally could see him splatted against the far side in a gout of blood, the arrow protruding at an angle. The helicopter drifted, wobbled, and finally dived in a curve away and downhill with a devastating rend of metal and wood. The brunette captor swept her ponytail behind her and shot him a cold glance, as if defying his scepticism.
The Larinthians were finished. What few had remained before the helicopter arrived were spared only the moments it took to catch them. The armoured front line emerged from their hiding places only to relax, disappointed they had girded for war and found only routing fools. Wally's captor again raised her bow at an enemy he had to look for. He found a lone conscript, disarmed, scrabbling for his life up the hill around their left flank. The woman loosed her arrow which pierced straight through the poor man and pinned him to the floor. Wally found himself imagining being that man, wanting only to escape and live, and being caught and killed like an animal. But he tore himself away from such morbid reveries as he realised he and Tanya were now safe, and looked for her.
She did not look well. Two amazons were holding her up under each shoulder and trying to speak with her, but she was too weak. They exchanged words tersely and one heaved her over a shoulder and ran off up the hill. Wally made to rise and follow them, but his captor kept him down with an implacable shove. Now the amazons talked in a strange language and to the pilot it seemed like an argument or discussion about what to do with him. His jailor seemed to be asserting custody while the others were pointing uphill toward, he presumed, their home. Thankfully none were pointing downhill or to the corpses of the Larinthians. Eventually he was raised one-handed to his feet, but they did not give him his gun back. Indeed, one of the girls picked up the bundle Tanya had been carrying and the others filed up behind her. They waited with a charged silence for his jailor to lead him by the hand to the front of their column, and up the hill.
If they could speak Lexian like Tanya could, they did not let on. They simply smiled awkwardly and exchanged giggling remarks whenever he pressed them for information. Toward the top of the hill the party joined a road of packed and trodden earth, and followed it to the top where the jungle gave way to open rice paddies. Their path now became loosely paved and Wally realised it was little more than flat stones tall enough to stand above the water of the rice fields. Above this expanse was an artificial step of stone-barred earth upon which simple huts made from wood and stone were built. The settlement seemed to rise gently and turn around a rocky outcrop on the left. Vestiges of jungle persisted on the right but Wally could see the sky through their branches. As they closed with the village he could see more girls watching their approach. There were no men to be found anywhere, nor children, nor elders.
The buildings were simplistic, but not crude. Little attention was given to their aesthetic but they seemed sturdy and homely as any spire-top he had seen back in Lexia. Roofs of thatch or wooden shake made him feel like he was stepping through a living history exhibit, and the smells of meat and spices cooking over open fire brought an irresistible smile to his lips. They walked on through the village, which climbed up and around onto a rocky plateau, and Wally realised it perched at the top, or the edge, of this stony apex. He could see that the village expanded upwards and noted at a glimpse the buildings seemed to increase in both quality and beauty, but he was guided toward an imposing statue of a muscular heroine embattled with an enormous snake. Underneath the statue was a low tower, and from the tower a rope bridge connected it to another ornate building higher up the plateau. The tower building was well crafted from attractive stone, with etched corner pieces and metal braziers wrought into complex patterns.
The heavy iron doors were open, and Wally broke into a run when he saw Tanya lying on the floor. Attending her was the amazon who had carried her off the battlefield, another in notably more garb than any other he had seen - a complex white dress with a silver belt inlaid with aquamarine stones - and a small bald man in Argonian military fatigues. Wally recognised him from the assembly area as a member of Lieutenant Westerley's party. The two amazons looked up at him worriedly as he approached, but the man was fixated on administering a shot from a hypodermic needle. Thereafter he rose, pocketed the spent needle and picked up his bag as if to leave. He didn't seem to have even noticed Wally, let alone show any emotion at finding another survivor.
"What was that?" Wally demanded, none too politely.
"Counter agent. The Larinthians have a wide range of toxins and reagents that I am, fortunately, familiar with. Have you been long in country?" He asked as if he was a tourist on his fifth visit.
"Two days. Will she be ok?"
"Absolutely. Though she will sleep for a day and be very drowsy for a day more. But have faith, she'll spring back in no time. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must see to something else. You're most welcome. Come, Athena."
The man pushed ahead past Wally who could only spread his hands in incredulous silence. The black haired amazon who had carried Tanya here also left, following on his heels. This left only the regal-looking blonde in the white dress, if it could be called that, who was now lifting Tanya off the ground in her arms. "Does she have a name?" the woman asked, and it took Wally a moment to realise he had been spoken to.
"Tanya. I'm so glad you speak Lexian. How did you know?"
The amazon smiled with relief. "When Athena brought her here she gave a description of you to Edgar, who told me you were a Lexian pilot. I am familiar with your language thanks to previous visitors. I make it my business to know as many as possible, it helps me to do my work. My name is Sophitia. Will you follow me please?"
The pilot followed her into an alcove where a spiral of stone stairs led them up the tower."Where are you taking her?"
"You can both stay with me until something is worked out in the village. Are you hurt, or tired? Would you like me to carry you?"
"No, I'm good, thanks to her. I'd be cat food if it wasn't for this one."
She led him across the rope bridge, which seemed like a superfluous addition for the effort it must have taken to put it here, but he realised it offered a direct connection to the larger, but similarly revered building they were heading towards. From this vantage Wally was given pause by the stunning view, as where the village was situated on the edge of a rise the land dropped away into a valley. He looked back at the direction he had come from and saw the river stretching away into the haze of the jungle heat. "She said she ran away." He muttered, vocalising a memory.
"Yes." Sophitia said, but did not elaborate. She led him across to the large building, which was arraigned around a central courtyard or forum with two floors. The interior was dark and smelled of rich incense or herbs. Flickering torches lit the stony landing and the top floor of the forum was arrayed with doors which, on opening one, were evidently chambers of residence. A made bed, a single chair and what appeared to be a writing table awaited inside. The amazon laid Tanya on the bed and turned to Wally.
"Close the door." She commanded, and he obeyed nonplussed.
"You have many questions, and I mean to answer them all. But there are also things I need to tell you..."
(The story will switch characters once again now)
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I really like this! Great work! K+
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Great set up and detail you are taking in getting this story set up, can't wait to see how you integrate all of your threads into one.....K++++++++++++
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Thanks gents, I am worried it is taking a long time to set everything up but...there were quite a few scenarios and encounters I wanted to cover :)
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DEXTER’S DROP
CHAPTER THREE
Dexter Malliard was the last person to leave the stricken Walrus. Flames washed over his Powered Armour and the screams of burning men were consumed by the hissing of the inferno inside the aircraft. He saw one of the flight crew stagger out of the cockpit, fumbling with a parachute, only to be knocked out of the open hatch. He strode to the threshold over the sad mess of unfortunates who didn't make it in time. His jump distance was a mere three hundred feet at a peculiar angle, barely enough time to hit his 'chute release catch. His parachute deployed just in time to slow his fall to a manageable speed, and a quick-release in mid-air allowed him to bypass a particularly mighty conifer tree. Natalya landed with a metallic crunch and hissing hydraulics. Dexter winced, then opened one eye to see if there was any permanent damage on his screens. Apart from severely draining the hydraulic intensity on the legs, which was really only used for powered leaps and kicks, the apparatus was in fine condition. Whether he was however, was another matter.
The jungle climbed all around him, though he had landed on a dirt road. Tyre and track marks ran through it and he knew this was enemy territory. He decided to move off the road, which circumvented the foothills of a mountain range that were layered with forest so that from the sky, the trees seemed as waves on the ocean, rising and falling. He first resolved to navigate to high ground from where he could observe any smoke signals or other movements that might tell him where the others - those who escaped the ruined Walrus - were rallying. He maintained radio silence as he trudged uphill, listening to friendly channels which were silent except for an unusual beeping noise on an emergency code, and Larinthian channels which were very lively. So they were here after all, and in force.
He decided, for lack of anything better to do, to triangulate the origin of the transmissions. Before long he had mapped a network of outposts reporting to a central hub, only a few kilometres away. Dexter set off to investigate, flicking through his channels and hearing only silence, or that curious bleep.
His peripheral impression of the lay of the land was that the Walrus had been heading down a long valley, and he had dropped into it. The valley was flanked on each side by cliffs that rose into jungled peaks, rocky hills as opposed to mountains. The land seemed well nourished with mountain streams and rivers, and although the ambient temperature was a sweaty thirty six degrees centigrade, he could still see snow on the mountaintops. He made his way toward the enemy base, picking his path carefully so he could see the road. Natalya’s skin shifted to a green and brown mess of abstract foliage. Sure enough, the road led him toward the base, and as soon as that became apparent he ventured uphill in search of a clearer view.
He found it abruptly by vaulting up some shelf-like ledges on the cliff face. The ground started to become rocky and Natalya’s skin changed again to include a gritty, marble-like texture to blend with the mountain stone. He was still two kilometres away but he could see the base clearly with the suit’s visual magnification. The jungle around it for a good five hundred meters had been cleared and burned to provide fields of fire. Squat bunkers provided sturdy firing platforms for ground troops, each flanked by sandbag field gun emplacements. On each corner a fortified watch tower provided good lookout over the surrounding area, with snipers and machineguns and probably artillery spotters. There was way too much security for the Larinthians to be alone in the jungle, so evidently there was a third party at work here, a powerful one that made them want to dig in. There were landing pads at the base, four of them, and even as he watched a Vulture gunship was touching down and its ground crew rushed out with munitions trolleys to re-arm it. The base had an armoured storehouse, maintenance bay, barrack blocks and there seemed to be stairs that led underground. He knew a base of that nature would have patrolling elements twenty-four-seven, but there also seemed to be a motor pool at the base and a frequent traffic of trucks in and out. Vehicles would turn up, be loaded with equipment, then drive out again. Some came singularly. Others were under armed escort, with a Halftrack, jeep, or armoured car.
Dexter took some key photographs of the defences and activity at the base and was just about to turn in search of running water to recharge the suit, when something new caught his eye. A Mecane crawler carrying its compliment of drones, all packed in neatly like goods in a store. It was too big to fit inside the base and he watched as its team of black-overalled technicians quarrelled with the gate guards for a while before the latter reluctantly agreed to send out a team of mechanics to overhaul their machines. A guard of armoured Truebloods formed a perimeter with heavy weapons around the vehicle. It stood to reason that House Mecane would find work in this environment. Robots didn’t tire easily and were completely dispensable, allowing them to cover a huge amount of ground no matter the cost while greatly reducing upkeep. Their presence here made operations considerably more dangerous, since there was no telling how far and wide their advanced machineries could roam in this environment and their fighting units would put the enemy on an even keel with Natalya’s capabilities. He watched the Mecane crawler depart the way it had come, then left in the opposite direction.
The Dafnese trooper made some hand-written notes, including a crude map of the base. He also pulled his recognition manual up on Natalya's interface, searching for the Mecane walker he had seen. The closest approximation was a Hub Crawler, designation "HIVE QUEEN". He whistled as he glanced over its specifications, the armour, arms and crew compliment. No asset this serious could be deployed without substantial supporting elements, and the fact it was roaming around apparently alone suggested they felt pretty comfortable here. They evidently felt that the jungle was no advantage however, given the cleared spaces, and he noted the roads leading away from the base in other directions had similar clearances, out to a hundred meters. He estimated there could be a battalion housed inside the base, along with equipment such as artillery and air support. For a moment he considered the possibility that he was completely alone here and caught himself wondering what the hell he was going to do. But then he remembered, someone had gotten out of the plane. Lieutenant Westerley was out here somewhere.
Dexter packed his notes away and continued to climb the cliff, jump by jump, until it presented him with a steep hillside. Climbing further he encountered a stream flowing almost parallel to the cliff. It took a sharp turn as the cliff seemed to run out of rocks, presenting a spill of jungle that broke down to the valley floor which the river seemed to be using to escape from the heights. Following it downhill he was relieved to find it joined a river, which he stood Natalya in and powered down to try the air with his own lungs. But while he was enjoying the climate and the cool, refreshing water on his bare feet he heard something. Music. Drums. Voices. Like a party or a chant, or maybe some spectacle with a crowd. He searched for the origin of the noise. It was from upstream, and he walked up the waterway toward it. The stream was one fork of a larger outlet running off the mountain above, and the water flowed more powerfully here at the junction. He stepped away from the unsteady stream and onto an island that separated its two forks, hiding behind a fallen tree where his rusty overalls would blend in better. A wooden footbridge crossed the water and there was indeed a spectacle taking place upon it.
Dexters eyes lit up as he saw that the entire gathering was of gobsmackingly attractive women wearing essentially nothing but swimwear. Their bodies were full and enticing, toned and tanned. In fact, they unanimously seemed to be very athletic, with solid abs and clear, supple quads. The musculature was best exhibited by the objects of the spectacle – two girls straining on what looked to be a tree trunk with iron bars through each end for hand grips. It was like an extreme tug of war, the sort of thing he expected Myrmadon strongmen to be doing once a year, but here were two young women finding each other to be the most challenging part of this feat. The girls around them shouted and bayed and whooped and cheered, but the competitors seemed to be in deadlock. Their bodies shone with sweat and their gorgeously defined bodies were rippling with muscle – not the inflated, veiny brawn of bodybuilders, but the quiet power and complimentary growth of people who honed their bodies constantly. It was a wet dream come true, and to Dexter, it was difficult to believe his luck.
Transfixed, he watched the competition. On the left side of the bridge was a girl who might have been just past twenty, with long, wavy brown hair that spilled out behind her broad shoulders. Her skin was tanned to a bronze complexion, and she braced against her opponent in a rock solid posture that gave away absolutely nothing. She wore a barley-coloured bikini that seemed specially fitted to cope with her heavy bust, which shuddered deliciously as she exerted herself on the trunk. Her opponent was by comparison paler and thinner, younger by a year or two maybe, but still very strong with arms that bulged with raw power. Much of her body was covered by a skin-tight purple one-piece that shaped her body perfectly. Her hair was bright red and gathered into a ponytail that stretched past her buttocks. She strained against the other girl tenaciously, trying to wear her down with ragged heaves. Dexter lost himself in the battle, hopelessly turned on by it, and he felt the guilty excitement of voyeurism. The girls pulled against each other tirelessly as the crowd grew more and more intense and excited. The audience seemed to be willing the competitors to greater feats of endurance and fortitude, cheering the staying power, rather than for a decisive stroke. Back home in Dafne, they’d have gotten bored and changed channel after five minutes without a victor.
He took a moment to study the crowd. Some of the girls wore pieces of armour – tassets around the hips, scandalously ‘light’ breastplates, shoulder guards, bracers and greaves. There was no uniformity, in fact their skimpy outfits and patchwork armour, though clearly crafted with care, seemed to be designed to be as bright and distinctive as possible. Some carried weapons, simple spears or axes, clubs and hide or wooden shields. A couple, one on each side in fact, wore disappointingly modest robes that were still outrageously daring by his own culture’s standards. These wore thin garments of wispy sheer or silk that hung from ornate belts or chokers, sometimes pinned in place by metalwork or jewellery. All of the girls were tall, beautiful and strong looking. He willed himself to reconnoitre the surroundings more carefully, and saw that behind the girls who were blocking off the bridge into an impromptu arena, were small gatherings of men who seemed very short and frail by comparison. They talked conspiratorially and gestured at the crowd, and he could plainly see they were assessing the qualities of the girls in the contest, as well as the assets of members of their audience too. They wore loose-fitting garments of an unfamiliar style, made from locally sourced materials – weaves of flax and hemp, fur and hides cut into simple, heat-efficient garments. The men seemed far less comfortable with their bodies, preferring to stay mostly covered up except for bare arms or bare chests, no doubt due to the interminable heat. They wore simple, loose-fitting garments - shirts, robes, togas even.
Some dramatic event caused the crowd to erupt into a frenzy of activity, and Dexter looked to where the girls were still heaving against each other. The younger girl with the long red hair had started a protracted pull against the other girl, causing the older to lean forward almost on one leg to fight back. As the redhead in the purple leotard hauled away the crowd seemed to collectively step forward in excitement, and both girls were audibly desperate to secure victory. Dexter’s heart raced as they moaned and grunted, but just when it seemed certain the ‘little’ redhead would win, she slipped onto her backside. The older girl with brown hair heaved back on the trunk and dragged her painfully across the floor, fighting every inch but losing hopelessly. At the last minute she rose to her feet and stopped the runaway win just short of the halfway mark, which was a simple white ribbon. For another minute or two, the girls growled and strained, but the redhead was off-balance and could only make her inevitable defeat harder for the other girl, which she did up to the last second when a tremendous pull dragged her up onto her toes and then flat on her face behind the dragging trunk. The girls gathered around went jubilant for the exhausted victor, crowding around her and lifting her into the air. They left the beaten redhead to rise slowly to her knees, where her posture sank and she seemed to weep into her hands.
Malliard tried to piece together what it was all about. As the victor was carried away and uphill, something stirred. The unseen drums were stopped and from the ledge above the bridge, a man in white overalls that looked very out of place stood from where he had evidently been seated and was led by one of the robed women toward the victor, who wrestled herself free of the crowd and rushed toward him, grabbing him in a tight hug and lifting him helplessly into the air. Then they kissed. There was some sort of exchange of words, an inaudible ceremony. Then the crowd cheered again and the drums started up once more. The brown haired girl carried the man off as the crowd celebrated behind them. They went uphill, the music fading as they walked.
Dexter saw that the crying redhead composed herself and stood tiredly, dusting herself off. She seemed to linger a moment beside the fallen trunk, the object of her humiliation, then picked up the entire thing and pressed it overhead before hurling it with an angry grunt. To his horror and amazement, the log, which must have weighed half a tonne at least, sailed directly toward him, landing in the stream with a crash of water that caused him to raise his arm defensively. When he looked back, the girl was staring right at him, her lips parted in silent surprise. She cocked her head as if to check he wasn’t a peculiarly shaped tree branch or bush. Dexter felt his body dive into cold dread as he considered the ramifications of discovery, or being caught peeping by a girl of such power.
His only response was to run.
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Hey Machao6, I really would like to compensate you for your effort (as well as encourage you to go on). Please set up a patreon account where we could pay you back.
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Hey Machao6, I really would like to compensate you for your effort (as well as encourage you to go on). Please set up a patreon account where we could pay you back.
That's very generous of you. Perhaps when I have finished it (some time yet maybe!) I will publish the whole thing as an ebook? Not really sure if I can after posting it here tbh, but we'll see. I need to look at options but for now please enjoy my work as its making me feel pretty good about writing in general, even though its not my "Magnum Opus"!
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He splashed back down the stream to where Natalya waited with open cockpit. Jumping inside, he clumsily strapped himself in as the door closed and the startup sequence initialised. He switched to thermal vision and scanned the way he’d come, but there was nothing there. Breathing a sigh of relief as he circled away from the bridge, he decided he had to map the area and find where those people had come from. There was evidently a village nearby, uphill somewhere. Miserably damp, he trudged wide to try and avoid the girl in case she was still watching in his direction. The hill was well chosen as a place to live, it was defensible. Too steep even for Natalya to scramble up, he had to resort to hydraulic jumps just to gain ground. Circling any wider would take hours.
He finally reached the summit of the hill and found himself looking at a deserted stone circle with boulders of varying sizes, dominated by six the size of truck cabs. This was evidently a meeting place, as the earth here was beaten taught and traces of discarded food, tools and scorch marks in the earth where fires had been lit. Chopped stumps of wood were scattered around, perhaps for seating. Beyond this meeting place, he saw a settlement made from simple wooden structures. It was fenced off with upright planks bolstered with more giant stones, but above the fence he could see houses built onto the forks of the giant trees that formed an impenetrable canopy overhead. It seemed deserted, and Dexter guessed that whatever they were celebrating had drawn everyone out of their homes for the occasion.
He was considering closing in to investigate further, when his proximity sensors alerted him to someone sneaking up behind the suit. He jumped up onto the nearest boulder and turned to face his adversary, but was appalled to see it was the red haired girl from the bridge. How had she managed to sneak up on him? She rose out of the long grass, where she had been creeping like a tiger, and balled her fists defiantly. Dexter had no intention of fighting her, but she was almost certainly more mobile than Natalya, and if her strength was evenly distributed she would have no trouble catching up to and out-manoeuvring the suit if he ran. Perhaps he could knock her out?
The girl surged like lightning toward him and he dithered, aiming the 50mm gun at her but unwilling to use it. She slammed into the boulder with the force of a car crash and succeeded in rolling it over, toppling Dexter’s suit onto its back. Then, as he was staring up at the sunlight filtering through the cracks in the tree canopy, she pounced on top of him and hammered down with a fist. The impact shook the entire frame and set off his collision alarm. If she kept it up she would eventually get through his visor or dent the suit so badly the integrity would be compromised.
“Ok lady, you asked for it...” He muttered, swatting her away with a backhand strike. He’d tried to do it gently but his suit was capable of lifting 2.5 tonnes and, being made of metal, delivered fairly hard blows even in glancing. The girl was knocked flying and skidded ten meters away, sending dust clouding up from her passing. Dexter rose and watched her push herself up off the floor angrily. He was sure he’d made a mistake. He backed away cautiously, hoping the girl would allow his intent to leave, but she advanced purposefully. She broke into a run and leaped a good three meters up to deliver a hammer blow, but an urgent boost to the right gave her nothing to connect with. Dexter could have followed up with something but wanted to make himself clear. Now the girl picked up a stone with the dimensions of a coffee table and threw it at him. The stone hit and sent the suit reeling backwards, then she closed and grabbed his armour plating.
“No, fuck off...!” Dexter murmured irritatedly, slapping the girl across the back and pancaking her between the suit’s hydraulically assisted arm and its unforgiving metal body. He was treated to the sight of her breasts slammed against his view port and her pained expression gave him a guilty pique of pleasure, but to his amazement she simply shrugged off the arm and used her new vantage point to try and lever the suit open, bracing with her legs and heaving with her arms. Natalya creaked at the seams as the redhead began to exert her strength on the metal joints.
“Seriously, fuck off!” Dexter punched the girl lightly in the side, but she kept her grip. He escalated but overstepped in his frustration, sending her staggering toward a rock which she had to lean on momentarily to recover. Yet she advanced again. Dexter swung an arm round but this time she blocked and caught it, which was impressive in itself, then turned her body inside his arm and flipped the entire suit by its arm joint. She slammed the suit into the rock, moving both with the impact and causing Natalya’s instruments to flicker. Malliard tried to grab the girl with both hands but she blocked each with one of her own and they wrestled for a time. She seemed surprised by the suit’s strength, which threatened to collapse her guard, but then she bared her teeth and fought back defiantly. Even though the suit had pressed her back several yards, she dug in and pushed back, bringing them both to a deadlock. She worked toward gaining purchase on the suit’s hands for a throw, so Dexter fired a hydraulic-assisted kick that sent her bouncing off the boulder behind her and back into his reach. Winded, she was caught unawares when the suit’s hands clasped around her, pinning her arms to her waist. She kicked and wriggled in its grip as Dexter lifted her into the air and prepared to throw her somewhere far away so he could make his escape.
But the girl had other ideas. She resisted so energetically that Malliard was forced to squeeze some of the fight out of her, causing her to cry out in pain. Then he threw her into the softest thing he could find – a palm bush – and turned to jump down from the plateau. As he calculated his landing however, a massive strike tipped the suit forwards and over the edge, sending it and Dexter crashing to the floor thirty feet below. With no way to land on his feet, he could only close his eyes and try to relax as the shattering impact gave him whiplash. Stunned, the suit lay on its back, a snapped tree branch for a pillow. He watched in horror as one of the giant boulders was edged toward the precipice above him, and got out of the way just in time before it put a two-foot indentation where he had been lying. As soon as it dropped however, so did the girl, landing on top of Natalya with a blow that destroyed his communications system and caused integrity alarms to blare out. Something hissed unhealthily inside the cockpit and he guessed it was the air containment system - no more air conditioning or NBC protection. The girl proceeded to hammer the carapace until he ripped her off and hurled her as hard as he could into the ground. Face down, she immediately began to press herself up, but he stamped on her back mercilessly, driving her back down with a moan of pain.
“Goddamn it bitch just leave me alone!” He cursed, hoping to flatten the last strength out of her, but to his astonishment the suit creaked and wobbled. “You have got to be kidding me...”
Snarling through bared teeth, the girl pushed up from the floor even with the weight of the suit on her back, and the armour pilot backed away to avoid being floored again. Slowly, she turned to face the suit again, puffing with rage. Then, predictably, she ran at him once again. Dexter met the attack head on. The two crashed together, the strength of her driving them toward the next ledge, the power of the suit slowing them to a deadlock. As the dust rose between them he kicked her harshly in the abdomen, then smashed both hands down on her back, eliciting a winded gasp. Yet again, the girl – who was dwarfed by the suit – rose immediately into another attack and this time slammed herself against its torso, low, beneath the reach of its flailing hands. Dexter felt a mixture of astonishment, excitement and dread as the entire suit was lifted into the air. He couldn’t see her but he heard the girl’s guttural roar of triumph and effort as she carried him to the precipice.
“No, no, no...!” the pilot cursed despairingly as she made to heave the suit over the edge.
In desperation he clung to the girl using everything he had, firing a snare that caught around her neck, hooking the suits clumsy limbs wherever he could around her body, trying to discourage her from making the final push for fear of taking herself over with him. Natalya shook and rattled as the girl, enraged, sought to shake herself free from its embrace, but all this did was put her in range of Dexter’s arms, which he used to bearhug the girl brutally. A final scream of frustration brought them both to tipping point. The drop was forty five feet, and her effort was so great that they had spun head over heels so she was beneath, bearing the brunt of the fall. Dexter could only watch helplessly as the antithesis of his intentions played out. The girl’s red ponytail stretched straight up in the air as they fell, and she issued an uncertain whimper when she realised she was going to be under the suit at the point of impact. They smashed into the earth with a dull thud, the girl’s squeal of pain piercing through the alarms and clamour inside its metal confines. Natalya was bounced clear of the girl to roll, one arm flailing by its wires, back onto his feet and then off them backwards to careen against the hill face.
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Dexter could feel blood pouring out of his nose and a cut on his forehead was bringing tears to his eyes. The suits power was knocked out, but through the vision slit he could see to his wonderment that the young woman was writhing on the floor and trying to pick herself up. He hastily re-initialised the startup sequence, but as she forced herself to stand, the look of suffering on her brave face made him lose all sense of aggression. Disgusted by his actions, he popped the hatch and staggered out of the suit. Her face dropped, somehow, from a look of pained desperation to speechless surprise. He crossed carefully toward her and stopped a safe distance away. Something about his expression caused her to look up at him apprehensively. He could scarcely believe he had done anything to hurt this beauty, this tenacious and brave young lady who fought with the strength and speed of a red tiger. He’d had a multi-million buck powered suit and she had fought it to a complete standstill. He felt horribly ashamed of himself, of what anyone would say of him if this story were ever to get out – not that he’d failed to kill her, but that he even considered or entertained the idea.
“Uhh...are you alright?”
“You’re...a man?” She exclaimed abruptly in perfect Dafnese, her voice awestruck like a child. Then she seemed to remember they had been trying to kill each other and her face hardened again.
“Stay away from me, Larinthian! Don’t think that because you’re out of that tin can I’m not going to rip you open anyway...”
Dexter closed his eyes for fear of her rebuke. “I’m...I’m not a Larinthian.”
“You’re who I saw on the bridge, aren’t you? You were spying on us!”
He nodded guiltily and tried to clear his passages so he could speak. “I heard the drums and wanted to see what was going on. When I saw...” he hesitated before continuing, unsure of how she might react to the truth.
“What did you see?” She asked calmly. When he opened his eyes again her expression had softened considerably.
“You.” He admitted seriously, and for a moment their gazes locked. “You were in some sort of contest. You were about to win it, but you slipped, and lost. Everyone cheered the winner and left you behind.”
She sat upright and hugged her knees, resting her chin on them grumpily. “Yeah. It was my trial of maidenhood, and I blew it. Now Sasha gets to go off and impress a master while I have to wait another year and do another twenty trials I can do when I practice, but not when it really matters...” She caught herself dangerously close to confiding in her erstwhile enemy and, looked at him guardedly. “I chased after you when you ran off, but all I could see was that thing. I thought you were one of the Larinthians’ machines. What were you doing?”
Dexter collapsed next to her and she sat up on crossed legs to listen to him. “After I saw there were people here I needed to find out whether you were Larinthian sympathisers or not. I’ve never been here before and to tell you the truth, I’m quite lost.”
“Well couldn’t you have just introduced yourself and asked?”
“Not really. I’m not supposed to be here. I needed the suit to perform quiet surveillance.” She looked at the sparking heap of nuts and bolts and snorted incredulously. The youth carried on despite her. “What if you’d been with them, huh? My goose’d be cooked for sure.”
The girl nodded in concession and looked him over. “So you thought you were being sneaky? Stomping around up there in that giant thing?” She clutched her stomach, evidently bruised and sore.
“That’s why you were fighting so strangely. Like when you threw me into the palm bush instead of off the cliff. I wondered about that but thought I’d just gotten lucky. You did that deliberately, didn’t you?”
Dexter didn’t look at her, but simply nodded guiltily. “Yeah. I’d tried to brush you off but I think I misjudged a few things. Hurt you. Made you mad. I didn’t realise you speak Dafnese, otherwise I’d have just asked you to stop.”
She laughed and bit her lip. “I don’t think that would have worked little man, I was pretty angry. And convinced you were a Larinthian. So if you’re not from Larinth, where are you from? And what are you doing here if you’re ‘not supposed to be here’?”
Malliard sighed. “Well...let me just be clear. You’re definitely not a Larinthian, and you don’t have anything to do with them, right?”
She leaned forward and spoke clearly for emphasis. “No. They want to kill, rape and enslave us. I’m not on best terms with them.”
“Ok, just checking. In that case, I’m part of a special mission that was sent here from the Four Nations Alliance to find out why the Larinthians are pouring armies into this jungle. We were supposed to drop in by parachute, but the plane got shot down, so I just kind of...dropped in.”
The girl laughed incredulously. “You just fell out of the sky? All by yourself?”
“Pretty much. But I wasn’t alone. There were some pilots who got royally owned by Mecane drones, and some infantrymen who have probably been scattered to the four winds and eaten by giant plants or something. I was supposed to meet up with everyone on the ground but...suffice it to say, I have no idea where anyone landed or even where we were supposed to meet up.”
“Gosh, that’s awful...so how long ago was all this?”
“About six hours.” The pilot admitted nonchalantly.
The girl shuffled closer, interestedly. “Well, how long were you supposed to be here? How are you going to get back home?”
Dexter simply looked at her blankly, biting his lips. “I think I’m here to stay, miss.”
She made a sympathetic noise and shuffled next to him, examining the cut on his forehead with a gentle touch. “Was I hitting that hard? It felt like I was hardly making a scratch in the thing.”
Dexter gaped at her. “You fell forty feet with a tonne-and-a-half landing on top of you, and you’re sitting here fawning over my papercut? Nevermind that, how is your back? And your ribcage?”
She felt herself tenderly, causing the lad to watch with interest as her hands navigated her bruised breasts. “Fine, I think. Maybe a couple of fractures. It wasn’t a hard landing, we fell into the soil. I was so annoyed when you wrapped that string around me at the last minute.”
“But you pushed us over anyway? You’re crazy.”
“Well I knew just hitting you wouldn’t work. I had to try and break it open and get to all the stringy bits inside.” The pilot blinked at her worriedly. “I didn’t know you were inside, I’m sorry!”
Dexter laughed, even as a tear ran down his cheek. The one became several. After all his worries and shame, she was apologising to him. She even put a hand on his shoulder warmly.
“Hey, did I say something to upset you? I said I was sorry...”
“I know I’m covered in blood and we just nearly killed each other and all, but...would it be weird if we hugged? I feel like we’ve covered a lot of ground today and we might be at the hugging stage of our relationship.”
Taken aback, the girl smiled, then laughed, then flung her arms wide to receive him. Dexter threw himself at the girl one more time, this time with affection, not aggression. She held him back fiercely but not uncomfortably, and he found the idea of her checking her great strength just to avoid hurting him immensely gratifying. He squeezed her as hard as he could, wondering if it would even register , but hoping she could feel his genuine remorse in their embrace.
“I’m not crushing your ribs, am I?” He joked, hoping she would take him seriously.
“No! You’re holding me just right. You must have practiced before we met.”
“Actually...this is a first for me. It’s kind of why I wanted to try it, after all we’ve been through together. And, you know, almost dying.”
She laughed and squeezed him again, and Dexter realised this was a rare feeling to experience. Appreciation. Affection.
“Where does your back hurt? Is it here?” He asked, resting a hand on her spine between her tall shoulder blades.
“No...lower...” She whispered, and seemed to crush into him as he ran his hand down to rest in the small of her back, just where it curved out to meet her buttocks. “There. Are you sure you’ve never done this before?”
“Yep. I’m a nerd who spies on semi-naked women from his giant robot. I don’t get out much.” He was rewarded with another warm laugh.
“Well, you fight like a horny Larinthian!” This made them both giggle. “It was pretty brave of you to just get out and start talking to me. What made you so sure I wasn’t going to splat you?”
Dexter paused to enjoy the feeling of her rubbing his back the same way he was caressing hers. “Nothing. I was actually thinking I’d kind of deserve it if you did. I never wanted to fight you, but you were way too quick to run away from. After the fall I thought I’d really hurt you, and I just wanted to stop fighting. I didn’t want to hurt you anymore than I had done up to that point.”
She stopped and put her face in front of his, challenging him. “You stamped on me!”
“Yeah. You wouldn’t stay down. I got a bit pissed off. I’d tried everything and you just kept coming back at me. I just needed you to stay where you were long enough for me to leave, you know?”
She grinned. “Well, I’m sorry to have disappointed you.”
“You really didn’t. When you started to get up anyway it was actually really exciting. When I battered you down and you just charged in and picked the whole damn thing up, it felt really good. I was kind of happy for you in a way, that you had all this courage and strength and energy that wouldn’t be kept down. I mean, underneath my frustration about getting my ass kicked by a half-naked girl, my fear of being thrown off a forty foot drop, and concerns about my liability insurance for the damage to the suit, I was happy for you.”
“You were happy when I threw you off the cliff?”
“Happy for you. There’s a difference. It was pretty impressive to experience. Being in there gives me a certain detachment from events, it wasn’t so much like you were fighting me, but the suit. It was like watching someone do something amazing, you know?”
She played with her ponytail again, flicking the end coyly. “It was pretty heavy, but mainly it was hard because you were fighting back.” She fixed a playful gaze on him. “So if you enjoyed it when you felt detached, I wonder how you’d feel about...this!”
Dexter could only make a questioning gasp as she stood up, bringing him with her effortlessly, then hoisted him up with her arms straight under his armpits. He was completely powerless in her arms, and could only look down at her in awe and excitement as she laughed back from below. Her happy face seemed lovelier even for the mud and scrapes across her pale skin. He felt himself becoming uncontrollably aroused and, where his package was level with her face, she couldn’t help but notice with an amused giggle. She let him drop a few inches to rest on her bust, crushing his erect member against them with her arms wrapped tight around his thighs. “I think you were happy for yourself, that time.” She declared with a lick of her lips.
“I am so glad I got out of the damned suit...” He breathed, and she giggled again.
* * * * * *
-
She had no name. Apparently that was what the contest had been about - the right to earn a name from a Master, which Dexter understood to mean, a man of the village. Of which, there were very few. This exotic caste system was never satisfactorily explained to the Dafnese intruder, who's every question was answered excitedly by references to some kind of legend; a Goddess of Might and some tenuous link to the present in that all Amazons - as they called themselves - were descended from this deity. An Amazon lived and breathed for the day she was named by her master, or a scion who became her master. Thereafter she would serve and protect him with her life and cater to his every whim. Dexter inquired and even insisted on knowing what the catch was, but according to his erstwhile friend there was none. A master, or a scion, was under no obligation to do anything and basically featured as a kind of vulnerable pup in the mythos of this Goddess Vitalia - even though there were many legends or allegories detailing the numerous ways a master could get their amazon into a world of trouble.
They talked for what felt like hours, nursing each other using the paltry first aid supplies Natalya carried. Her gentle touch as she cleared the drying blood from his nose and forehead was a soothing balm. Then, when Dexter insisted he had to leave, the young amazon insisted on helping him fix his precious suit. She held the heavy arm - way too heavy for him to do anything with - in place while, at her invitation, he sat on her shoulders to extricate the mangled bolts and guide it into place for refit. She even held the thing one handed while passing him fresh fittings, and then waited patiently as he ran the bolts in with a special tool. It was noisy, but they seemed to be stranded way off the beaten track. When he was finished he bade her let go of the arm to see if it held in place, which it did. Next he took one look at the communications array and decided it would be a project for another time. Finally, the dents on the chassis and the damage to his air conditioning vents posed a problem until he explained that he didn't have anything that would bend the metal back into shape. The girl solved this by simply fiddling with the contraption, forcing the plates back into alignment and holding the errant vent covers in place while he screwed in fresh fixtures. Natalya looked decidedly better, and Dexter leaned on his new ally fondly until she took him by the chin and guided him into a gentle kiss.
"I have to go," the trooper mumbled reluctantly "I have some things I need to do."
"Where are you going?" The flame-haired amazon demanded.
"I have to find my friends, if they're alive. I'll come back here, I promise."
"I'm coming with you." It was a declaration, not a suggestion.
"No, it will be dangerous. There are Larinthians everywhere and I need to not worry about keeping someone else safe."
She laughed, and said nothing more even when he kissed her goodbye. When he climbed aboard his suit she was still there, and when he picked a direction and started walking she simply watched him leave. It was hard to walk away from her, but he had logged the village on his map and knew how to return when he was ready. For now, he had to find any survivors before the Larinthians did.
Picking his way through the jungle proved to be more demanding on his attention than he would have liked. He'd been trying to map the Walrus' flight path so he could patrol it for any sign of his comrades in arms, but he had to stop in order to plot a course. His route would take twenty four hours to walk, so he needed to find a river on the way. He found he could follow the river for a few hours before having to leave it, so resolved to make a proper charging stop there. The river led back to the valley floor sure enough, and he stayed on the northern bank as it widened out. Night was starting to fall and the sky lost its brilliance as wan strands of pink betrayed the sun's absence. Under the canopy of the trees the land grew very dark, and Dexter found himself using the light amplification to navigate.
He found a fortuitous point in the river where it had an island - little more than a few boulders with some young trees protruding from them. They would offer a degree of concealment, at least from one side, as well as an unapproachable defence on either side for a rest stop. He waded Natalya out into the river, which came to waist height, until he could rest an arm on the boulders of the island. Natalya promptly switched camouflage accordingly. Then he deployed the hydroelectric generator from its rear-mounted power pack, opened his hatch and clambered across the arm to the boulders. He was still barefoot from his encounter with the girls on the bridge and cursed as he'd left his boots behind running from the redhead. He fished out a bar of cereal from his pocket and tore at it impatiently. The rocks were mostly flat and offered an acceptable place to doze for a little while. The generator needed four hours to complete its charging cycle. He couldn't very well find anything by night, and he'd be totally doomed if he allowed Natalya to run out of juice during his search. So he took the time to make himself passably comfortable, and closed his eyes.
He didn't truly sleep. It was too exposed. While the climate was perfectly acceptable and the gushing water around him made for a relaxing sound that also disguised the low hum of the suit's generators, the idea of someone or something coming across him in this naked state was too great an anxiety to give way to slumber. So he tossed and turned as each position succumbed to discomfort against the hard rocks. He had managed maybe three hours before a splash prompted his mind to waken fully to alert status. It was over on his left, the opposite side from the suit. There was another. It sounded as if someone was throwing rocks into the river. When he turned to see he found very little indeed, only an inky blackness marbled with white crests where the scant moonlight was catching the twists and undulations of the river's course over its rocky bed. He had unconsciously drawn his pistol, a tiny Hawk Industries compact, but there was nothing to shoot at.
Until it jumped at him.
He had an impression of teeth, rows of teeth in long, straight lines snapping together where his head had been milliseconds before. He was already falling backwards off his perch, crashing against Natalya's outstretched arm and sliding off into the river head first. In panicked submersion he writhed and flailed, afraid to be in the home environment of whatever was attacking him. As his exertions used up valuable air, he finally found Natalya's leg by painfully smashing a leg into it. He climbed up, faster than he had ever climbed anything, and cringed on the suit's shoulder with his pistol at the ready. Breathless, and dripping wet, a shiver of adrenaline ran through him. There was no sign of the beast.
Another hollow clap sounded just below where the thing - a long-beaked, scaly, lizard-like creature - had tried to catch his foot where it was protruding past the edge of his suit's shoulder plate. The water was over a meter below but the attacking creature was capable of leaping out to strike. He resolved to stop looking over the side, hoping his advantage of height would protect him. There was a splash again as something heavy dropped into the water, and he recognised now that this was the creature trying to leap out of the water and on to the rocks where he had been lying.
With a meaty slap, the creature finally made it onto the rock and gripped the surface. Dexter watched in morbid fascination as it clawed its way over the lip of the boulders. It was dark, but he saw enough. A long snout with powerful jaws, flipper-like appendages on a lean, wiry body, and powerful legs terminating in taloned feet. Dexter levelled his gun but hesitated, fearing firing a shot. The creature seemed to search for him for a moment before finding him and studying the metallic arm he was perching on as if curious how to pass this next obstacle. Dexter decided to get back inside the suit where nothing could hurt him and he could simply wait out the predators, but as he slid a leg down to the hatch there was another snap and he had to jerk his foot clear. Another of the monstrosities had found purchase on the open hatch and was now trying to climb up toward him. He had an impression of others in the water and readied his pistol to fire.
The report of its .22 calibre shot was comparatively tiny in the grand scheme of warfare, but in this pitch black the muzzle flare and sound seemed very conspicuous. He was certain he had hit the beast on the rocks in its face, but short of an irritated jolt of discomfort, it didn't seem too bothered. He fired again and this time it reared its beak up. At first he thought he'd injured the creature, but it was readying itself for a leap, standing on its froglike hind legs and launching at him like a javelin. Time slowed as Dexter's mind flooded him with reactionary chemicals. He could feel his finger squeezing the trigger again and again, and each little shot seemed like flash photography as the monster came inexorably closer, long jagged jaws outstretched. Then something else came into view, a pendulum sweeping the predator out of the air. Dexter caught himself screaming as he realised the danger was passed, and crouching with her back to him was a familiar red ponytail and the sublime lines of a purple swimsuit. Or at least, the native approximation thereof.
-
"Are you alright?" She asked, searching the water for any other threats.
"Y-yes, thank you. What the hell are these things?"
"Leapjaws. They're scavengers. They only attack vulnerable prey." She still hadn't looked at him as she watched the creatures descend on their fallen compatriot with voracious appetite. Her words cut keenly and Dexter felt foolish for assuming he would be safe in such a precarious position. He knew nothing of this place, or its risks. After shredding the fallen leapjaw, the others slinked off downstream like a mob shooed away from a crime scene. When she was satisfied they had dispersed, the amazon crossed and scooped him up in her arms. In his fading panic he was quite grateful for the security she offered.
"I'm not so glad I got out of the suit that time." Dexter admitted. "I should have just slept in there."
"It isn't safe for you here. This whole jungle is alive. They're not even predators, they prey on wounded animals and stranded chicks." Dexter sighed deflatedly and she brushed his hair out of his eyes. "I was right not to let you go wandering alone."
"Why did you follow me? You don't owe me anything."
"No. But you owe me now."
Dexter nodded his assent. "Right. Name it." She turned him so she could look at him. Her gaze sharpened to a piercing intensity and he began to feel uncomfortable. "Oh whoa, no way, I'm not getting involved in all that stuff you were talking about before! I'm not a responsible adult and I shouldn't be trusted with that kind of...that kind of...commitment. I am a one-man operator on a mission, and you've already seen the kind of stupid fuckups I make."
She kissed him into silence and grinned. "I didn't say anything! But you're no longer a one-man operator. Did I say that right?"
"No, you mispronounced Solo. Singular. Without attachment or social considerations. It's very important to my frame of mind."
She leaned in very close, so that her breasts crushed against his body. "There are other things important to your frame of mind..." she whispered.
"Not right now there aren't!" he pleaded, almost wrestling his way out of her arms until she caught his errant leg and secured him again with a frown.
"I'm staying with you. And I'm taking you somewhere you can get some real rest."
"The suit is fine, just put..." But the words were just words, as she had already leaped with him from the rocky island to the bank of the river below. She took him to the nearest tree, climbed it easily with him sitting on her hip, and then swung a leg over one of its broad branches and rotated him so that he was sat facing her. Without another word she unzipped his boiler suit. "What the hell are you doing?!" The trooper demanded.
"How does this thing come off? You're soaking, it needs to dry."
"It's fine, just..." An ominous tearing noise ensued as she simply carried on unzipping. "Brilliant. I'm stranded thousands of miles in uncharted territory, my squad is blown to hell, there are enemies all around me, I almost got eaten by mistake, I lost my shoes and now I don't even have a uniform anymore!"
He extricated himself from her arms and stood to remove the tattered garment. With his arms out it hung around his waist and he paused. "Turn around or something, this is embarrassing."
"Why?" The amazon asked genuinely enough.
"Just...don't look at me. No one's ever seen me naked and its not a pretty sight."
"You're not nak..." But with a withering glare, the girl dutifully averted her eyes as he removed the torn boiler suit and draped it on the branch between himself and her feet. He sat then at the end of the branch in his boxers and hugged his knees.
"Safe place to sleep my ass. If I fall asleep here I'm going to fall to my death."
The redhead smirked as the young soldier muttered to himself. He was wet through and was starting to shiver. "So come here where I can keep hold of you."
He looked at her then and it wasn't hostility or annoyance, but guilt on his face. "Won't it be...uncomfortable?" He mumbled.
"I promise it won't. I'm much comfier than the branch. Come here."
Dexter nervously edged sidelong toward her, but as soon as he was within arms reach she leaned forward and grabbed him, pulling him onto her outstreched legs so that he was sat with his back to her against her body, and wrapping her arms around him tightly. After a moment's awkward stiffness, he eventually relaxed against the warm press of her body and rested his head on her shoulder, where she could nuzzle him fondly. "There. That's better, isn't it? Are you comfy?"
His voice was tiny. "Yes. Thank you. I'm really sorry about all this."
"You're very welcome." She breathed in his ear, and in not very long at all, he was fast asleep.
* * * * * * * * *
When he awoke he was comfortably numb, but he seemed to have an extra pair of arms that were stitching the tear in his boiler suit until he remembered their bizarre sleeping arrangement.
"Do you just carry those things around with you in case you destroy someone's clothes?" He murmured, sleepily.
"No, but you do. The little bag of medicine and wraps you used earlier was in one of the pockets. It had a needle and thread in it. The least I could do was mend it for you."
"The suture kit? I mustn't have put it back. Good thing I didn't. Thanks for fixing it. Did you sleep at all?"
"No, I was keeping an eye on your suit of armour."
Dexter turned his head to find her face. "You didn't sleep?"
"I wasn't tired. No Larinthians have been by, and with the exception of a Ghost Panther that sniffed us out and decided we weren't worth it when I met his eye, nothing else has come near. I've finished with this now and although it's not completely dry, you said your mission was important. So put it on and we'll go."
After some mumbling about the ease of putting on a boiler suit on terra firma, she took him down from the tree and waited while he zipped himself back into his overalls. When he returned to Natalya all systems were fine and he was able to use its self-repair system to administer a sealing agent to repair the air conditioning functions, thanks to the fine work his nameless ally had done bending everything back into shape. He used the suit's PA system on a low volume to speak with her.
"Everything is good as new here. I need to get my comms system up and running again, but I can't do that without some very specialised parts. You're welcome to hitch a ride if you like." She took him up on his offer and they set off. Dexter had planned three sectors to investigate, based on their proximity to the river which he needed to depart from and arrive at each day, and the trajectory of the Walrus as it went down.
Every now and then she would leave to walk on her own legs, or run off to investigate something and point out interesting flora or fauna, or swing from tree branches like an acrobat. She seemed to prefer being active to being idle, and although Natalya's pace was quite a bit faster than a normal person, the amazon could keep up with it even when Dexter tried breaking into a run. She could even keep up with the suit's boosts, laughing when it became clear he would sometimes do it suddenly and deliberately to try and get ahead. As they moved she explained about different trees, plants, and animals, and on a few occasions demanded he open up so she could feed him nuts and berries she'd picked.
She also seemed to have a good knowledge of the area. Once he explained some of his decisions with regard to their route - how he wanted to use the terrain to hide the suit from observation, how he wanted to avoid any clearings or open spaces or well-travelled routes, and how the suit could and could not cope with certain slopes or jungle densities, she quickly incorporated his tactical considerations into the assistance she could render. She was fascinated by Natalya's adaptive camouflage, and at one point insisted on challenging her senses against its sensorium array, seeing who could guess most accurately where a bird was calling from. The girl's senses were very keen - Dexter tried listening out with his own ears and could only hazard a vague guess that made her laugh, but Natalya's finely tuned reconnaissance suite was designed to give every possible advantage to the user. He felt pretty cheap when a particularly harsh birdcall registered on its Gunshot Accoustic Director, and he could pinpoint its exact location almost immediately.
On the first day he covered more ground than he expected. They encountered a discarded parachute, but there was no sign of a body or any equipment. A few hours later they found another, and the redhead indicated signs of heavy Larinthian foot traffic on the narrow trails and suggested they'd dragged someone away from a bloodstained patch of brush. While he was able to tell the signs once he saw them and make a fair amount of deduction from the markings based on his own training, the environment did not lend itself to tracking at all. This was untamed wildland, and what trails existed seemed to be made by animals. The amazons maintained some, his beautiful assistant intimated, routes between villages and "meeting places". He found it hard to imagine these warrior-women doing anything so mundane as roadwork, but reckoned they would have the same necessities as anyone other settlement.
When they returned to the river to rest and recharge, he found he had barely touched his rations thanks to the forage his guide had produced during their travels - and in less than an hour poised in the river, she snagged a large fish with her bare hands that she assured could be eaten raw. Dexter sampled it but decided he wasn't a fan of seafood, so she ate and he finished off the berries she'd collected. He offered to take a watch so she could sleep in peace, which caused a minor argument. While he took a look at his comms system and made a list of what needed replacing, she used vines and treefell to fashion a shelf in one of the trees that they could sleep on more comfortably. Dexter was reassured to see there was no rot in the timber, and any anxieties he might have had about her workmanship vanished when she cuddled up to him to sleep.
The next day were woken by a helicopter passing, and from its trajectory Dexter knew it was coming from the base he'd found when he landed. It didn't seem to notice anything amiss and continued the way it was going, which seemed to be in line with the path the Walrus had taken. Dexter reasoned the Larinthians might know more than he about any survivors and decided to make that his next search sector for the day. His friend was up well before him and picked them some mushrooms for breakfast.
"Aren't you going to be missed back home?" He asked her as they marched on through the jungle.
"No. As long as I come back with something to eat on my shoulder, I've been out hunting."
"Is there much, you know, protocol for meeting random guys like me in the jungle? Didn't you say your tug-of-war thing was to decide who gets to be named by a master?"
She swiped at some vines hanging in her path irritably at the reminder. "It was, but I lost."
"So...I can't name you, for example?"
"I thought you didn't want to?" She retorted without looking at him.
"Well, I mean...what's to stop some random person coming to the village, naming someone, and lording it over them?"
"That...that's kind of what we all wish for. The contests are to keep order because there are so few scions. So when one comes by - which is very rare - there's a scrabble for who gets access to him. The Priestesses have to keep them under guard until the Trials sort it out. It's a pecking order."
"It sounds pretty draconian. Survival of the fittest and all that."
"Yup. Guess I'm not fit enough."
"Hey, you're plenty fit enough. I feel out of breath just thinking about how much...running here and there, climbing trees, jumping from branch to branch you do. Plus you keep up with Natalya, there's no way I'd be able to walk this far if I wasn't in an Armoured Suit."
There was a delay in her response. "Thanks. Does that mean you're going to name me now?"
"What? No, that's..."
"You don't want me..."
"Whoa hold on, it's not like that. I told you, I can't get involved."
"You are involved. You came to my home, bringing your war. You spied on me, I didn't spy on you."
"So why are you helping me like this? What do you get out of it?"
With a growl of annoyance she kicked a dead stump in her path, destroying it in a shower of dust and splinters. "Nothing. I'm going to hunt. We should have something proper to eat today. Don't follow me in your clumsy suit of armour."
"O...K..." Dexter breathed to himself, suddenly quite alone.
-
He knew she could track his suit in the dark, not least by daylight, so he decided to continue with his search pattern. An hour down the path he found a dead Argonian hanging from his stranded parachute in a tree twenty feet up. There were signs of Larinthian foot traffic below but no one had made any attempt to get the body down. He found himself facing a moment of indecision. He wanted to cut the man down and bury him, but doing so would almost guarantee to the enemy - who had been here before and might be here again - that another survivor was afoot.
"Fuck it." He muttered, knowing full well that any Larinthian trackers would be able to see his passing here. He used Natalya's 5KW Laser to sever the strands holding the body up. The corpse crashed to the ground with an unceremonious thud and cracking of bone. He popped his hatch and stepped out to stare at the body. The cold, pale face of death. The man seemed disappointed - rightly so, being killed helplessly in the air before he could even raise a gun to fight back. Dexter summoned himself to extricate the dog-tags from around the corpse's neck. "Sorry pal." The trooper muttered, then hurried back to Natalya. He carefully picked the body up in a metal hand, walked a short distance from the trail and scooped at the earth with his free hand, placing the body and piling the soil back on top. The man's rifle was nowhere to be seen, but his helmet had rolled loose during the fall and Dexter placed this on the grave site as a headstone. He read the dog-tag aloud. "Corporal Miller". Same rank, almost the same name. The guy was older by a few years, but that didn't make much difference. He kept the fallen mans tags close, in his breast pocket.
The Larinthians had been operating on foot, and were clearly close enough to reach this site before he had in a powered suit. He knew from his earlier ELINT that there were more enemy outposts nearby, and decided to pay some of them a visit in the hopes of finding a living survivor. Maybe pay the debt of blood owed to those poor men who burned up in the aircraft before it crashed, and this guy caught helpless hanging in the air. He walked Natalya onwards.
Hours passed. His route took him onto the valley floor and a strong river some hundreds of meters wide cut through the length of it. He could cross in the Armoured Suit but decided it would be a day's work to do so, and resolved to cover his side of the banks this afternoon. He quickly realised that staying near this river was a mistake, as a Larinthian patrol boat spotted him, but after some quick hiding and adaptive camouflage, must have decided he was some sort of panicked beast of the jungle instead of an actual threat. The patrol boats were shallow drafted craft, sturdily armoured, with a variety of weapon options. This one seemed to be carrying two mortars on its rear deck, and a double-barrelled large-calibre automatic weapon in a cupola on the bow. He stayed in sight of the river but moved further inland, and saw another patrol boat with long, pipe-fed appendages that he later surmised must have been flamethrowers. He also saw a barge, a wide, flat think with a tiny wheel cabin, laden with cargo covered by tarpaulins, secured with ropes and steel wires.
Something clicked into place for Dexter. There was little clear area for aircraft to land, and in any event the land had to be cleared and that took manpower - manpower who needed securing from attack while they were working. The road infrastructure here was not far removed from nonexistent - dirt tracks highly vulnerable to the weather. Vehicles would make little headway in the jungle. The river offered the most efficient way of moving bulk materials, which meant it must be acting as a chief line of supply for the Larinthian forces. He paused to note down his observations as well as the approximate times of the vessels he'd seen.
His route took him past one of the positions he'd triangulated the day before, not long after landing. As he'd found no further articles from the stricken Walrus, save for a piece of its fuselage that had sheared through a tree and blocked the path, he decided to investigate. He'd been expecting an encampment, a forward operating base for a company or a platoon, but what he actually discovered was altogether more comprehensive. This site had a cleared area like before, forcing him to stay well back. A perimeter of defences included covered trenches and pillboxes, two watchtowers, several barrack buildings - dug in so that they protruded from the ground - and a helipad. There was no high ground to claim a vantage over this place, and one side of the area was met by the river, which had been worked on and within the defensive perimeter Dexter could see jetties for mooring and loading small vessels. There was a barge moored up, empty. There was also a statue, an immense serpent in what he assumed was bronze, rising out of the base like a deity. The Coiled King, the quasi-religious doctrine of the Larinthians. They revered it as a warrior cult, but his red haired ally had put a more developed spin on the beliefs. Why put it here? Of all the places to keep something sacred, why on the frontline in enemy territory? There was a tap on the top of Natalya's armoured carapace, jarring him from his investigation, but he reasoned it must be deadfall from the trees.
There was movement in the base. A section of infantry was heading out, toward him, and he watched them file out into a skirmish line. To sweep the jungle. Had he been spotted? His camouflage index placed him well below ambient. He searched frantically for any sign he had been detected, but there was nothing. Yet the troops came ahead, and he could even see the squad leader, a Trueblood in resplendent golden armour as conspicuous as the strange statute, craning a hand to his headset and directing his men's search pattern. As Dexter made to leave, he saw that beyond the perimeter defence there were emplacements - well-concealed emplacements - in the tree canopy. They resembled pillboxes but they formed a raised layer and, tracing their arc around the base, Dexter knew he had blundered through this hidden circuit. Evidently they only held snipers or observers, as no fire had been directed at him yet, but he was made and so it was time to leave.
When he broke cover, the first shots ricocheted off Natalya's armour. The carbine bullets were no threat, and even when they opened up with a squad support weapon the damage was only to his camouflage, nothing more. A rocket hurtled past and exploded in the trees ahead and to his right, and that posed a significantly greater threat. He changed trajectory, then changed again, thwarting a second rocket that, unguided, seemed to carry for a miraculous distance between the trees before crunching away in the depths of the jungle ahead. Something large calibre hit him twice, causing a threat alarm to sound, but the strikes had been glancing hits and before long he was safe from gunfire.
He circled around and away, until he was certain any pursuers would be hours away. He made sure to break his trail by heading into the river shallows, despite the risk of patrol boats finding him again, he used his radar to give him advance warning. They would know his vicinity if anyone was watching for it, but when troops arrived there would be no trail to follow. No boats came and he gave it a kilometre or so before switching the radar off and heading back onto land. So far, so good. Finally he came to a rest an hour short of their makeshift rendezvous, where the red haired girl had made their shelf in the tree. Dark was falling again, but he needed to inspect the damage and so popped Natalya's hatch and climbed out.
He noted nothing ominous. There were two very pronounced scrapes from some sort of anti-materiel weapon that had been defeated by the rear carapace. They would affect the adaptive camouflage and he could see the singed fibre-wires on each side of the grooves. No sooner had he tutted at the damage, he felt a sound on the air. A throbbing. Rotor blades! It came straight for him rocket pods puffing, and Dexter nearly trapped his foot as the suit hatch closed.
The first rocket exploded as Natalya's startup sequence initialised. The second knocked the suit forward onto its face and the third exploded between the main body and the outstretched left arm, shaking pilot and suit and causing his screens to flicker. Several sensor readouts showed faults and he had to push with the arms and bring the feet up awkwardly to right the suit from this face-down position while more rockets exploded as the gunship roared past. He tried to acquire it but his targeting sensors were knocked out. More hard-to-replace equipment...if he survived this encounter.
He boosted away, snapping through a dead branch and into the relative cover of some trees, from which he searched for the chopper. It was playing a good game with him, using its speed and agility to manoeuvre beyond his limited line of sight. The trees worked for and against him here, as they hid him from the helicopter's flybys, but also prevented him from observing its angle of attack. He knew that activating his radar would be a death sentence as any guided weapons systems it carried would have no difficulty penetrating the jungle canopy to find him. So he waited.
And cursed when the helicopter attacked from behind again. Was it blind firing? It was a good guess if so. Rockets exploded, splintering tree trunks and felling huge timbers that he had to leap aside to dodge. The rockets had been right on target and if it hadn't been for his quick reactions, he'd have taken a direct hit. Was it out of rockets now?
He raised his 50mm gun in preparation for a shot, but again there was no sign of the helicopter. Night was properly fallen now and the helicopter had no lights to give it away. He checked his ammunition and changed it from "Explosive" to "Cannister". His right arm made a series of clicks and whirring noises and then his weapon indicator showed green for ready. It was about time the chopper showed again so he started moving, and as he searched behind him he saw it rise and bear down on him with all guns blazing. A stitch of cannon fire chased Natalya across the now-cleared patch of broken canopy while rockets exploded. Dexter paused to fire but a close call sent the suit, and his shot, veering off kilter. He was now getting indicators from his structural analysis showing shrapnel damage to the vulnerable joints of the suit. How did it know where he was?
There was higher ground nearby and he made for it, reasoning that if he could expand his point of view he might get the drop on the gunship while it was turning to make another attack. Again the chopper attacked, and this time the cannon raked the suit from head to toe and he felt tiny flecks of metal embed themselves in his arms and legs where the internal armour hugged his limbs and was flaking under the direct hits. Then there was a metal crunch and the suit staggered off balance, and his indicators showed the foot actuator was severed. There were no rockets this time however, and Dexter growled with desperation as he launched Natalya onto the rocky high-ground, latching on with the left arm and leaning out to aim with the right. He scoured the horizon using thermal optics and found the helicopter plain as day. Its cannon was tracking him despite Natalya's ambient ECM profile, and the two combatants fired on each other simultaneously.
The gunships cannon bounced off Natalya's armoured hide but its sheer weight of fire had both a concussive and cumulative effect. It hammered the joint where his left arm was holding onto the rock face, and in the hundreds of rounds that arrived, the arm severed at the shoulder just like it had done in the fight with the amazon. Dexter cursed as Natalya fell away, blasting away with his 50mm autoloader. The cannister shots were actually defeated by the gunships own armour plating, but he was only interested in the rotors, which he desperately aimed for even as the rock face partially collapsed under the onslaught, sending rubble following him to the floor.
It was not a steep drop, not like the one before, but coupled with his earlier whiplash injuries and lacerations, this impact struck him like a car crash. His left arm was exposed to the rubble that crashed down and he screamed as it snapped under the impact. He glimpsed the gunship spiralling out of control overhead, and heard it crash in an almighty explosion away to the right. Amid a cloud of rock dust and gunsmoke, hissing through tears of pain and rage, he agonisingly used the muzzle of the 50mm to scrape away the stone crushing his arm and then used it as a crutch to right the suit. He had to leave. But with one foot gone the suit could only limp, and he knew that the enemy had tagged him with some kind of designator. They would find him, and in this state, kill him. Bitterly remembering the vengeful vow he had made when his unit was wiped out during training, and even today when he buried the dead Argonian, he let the suit topple and initiated its self-destruct procedures. Scraping himself clear of the hatch, he hobbled up the rocks as best he could, careful not to take any route that needed both hands. Then he turned and watched the suit explode, each limb carefully detonating with a controlled incendiary that gutted the wiring and computer circuits until only a blackened shell remained. The suit was his life, his livelihood, his one calling to redemption. Now it was salvage.
"Goodbye, Natalya." He cuffed some tears away and turned to look at the glowing smoke rising from the helicopter's passing. "And fuck you Larinthians!"
He started walking. He was going in roughly the direction he had been heading before the attack. But as he stumbled on he realised he had no idea where he was in relation to anything. All of his navigational apparatus, his reconnaissance notes, had been in the suit. His food and emergency supplies. He had nothing, and night was settled. As if to emphasise the point, something in the distance howled. It sounded much bigger than a wolf.
His arm was bleeding profusely. It had been too painful to try and extricate it from the sleeve of his overalls so it hung limply by his side, a medic's nightmare. He was barely three hundred staggering meters from the suit when he collapsed.
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Machao, as you must know, in a novel the journey is the story.
You don't need to worry about delaying the climax when the story has so many varied exciting scenes.
I'm retired and I read a lot of fiction. This novel or novella of yours is really really excellent work !!!
First rate.
Don't rush to end this, but keep the story progressing and varied, as you are doing.
And don't ever stop writing fiction again !
Again, first rate work!
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I agree with Jaguar. This is a fantastic story. Gre
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Great work.
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Thank you so much gents. Your encouragement has kept me at this project an instea of eleting it as I was consiering before I ecie to chance it on here. I now inten to finish the job, but as I keep having ieas for it, it may take a while ;) Gla to hear you're not bore by it.
Just a quick note - my keyboar has lost a key you can probably guess if I use enough wors with it in...so there may be a little elay while I sort a new one out!
I am aware that the balance of the story is currently a bit more on the military fantasy rather than erotic muscle sie of things, but it will move on in stages once I've got my ucks in a row, so to speak.
Cheers fellas!
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Great story, all three points of view are expertly done............can't wait for Dexter to name his red-haired wonder Natalya, so she can protect him just as the suit once did!!
KARMA+
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Great story, all three points of view are expertly done............can't wait for Dexter to name his red-haired wonder Natalya, so she can protect him just as the suit once did!!
KARMA+
Oh, he's rumbled me! It doesn't count as a spoiler if you guessed it correctly XD
I wasn't too subtle about that one :cool2: I'll have to keep the surprise in the timing then!
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Dexter fell into deep water. He was underwater in a dark place where blueish-green light lanced down from some distant source above. His hair expanded in the water, his limbs rose idly on the currents, but he knew in this place the prospect of surfacing was not an option. There was no surface. His wounded arm stained the water dark where inky blood was still expelling from his wounds. Yet there was no pain now. Things moved on the edges of his vision, impressions of finned, fanged predators cruising with confidence around his body and its spilling blood, waiting as guests to be called to action by some prompt unknown. He was not drowning, and when he became conscious of this he breathed in and did not choke on water. Then he breathed out bubbles that rushed away. A thought amused him here. Perhaps the fanged predators circling him were not waiting to eat him, but were forming a cordon around him through which no others could approach? Guarding him as he drifted, aimless and unpowered. There was no pain here, and so he closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation of weightlessness.
He became aware of dryness and harsh light. When he opened his eyes again he was in a white room, so white it was hard to make out the dimensions, the corners, or even the ceiling. In fact there was no shadow at all and he realised there must be some immensely powerful light source above his head where he couldn't see it. He could hear nothing and, whether through exhaustion or restraint, he could not raise his head off the bed. He could however roll his head to one side to see that his wounded arm was missing.
He screamed. Everything changed. He had a flood of images, memories, fluid visions. Dank, primitive confines. Sweat on skin glistening in firelight. A man in doctors overalls with a mask and a skullcap glancing at him as he bawled out loud, raising tweezers and a clamp from open-wound surgery on his arm. Something was holding him down and he realised from the way their grip shifted on his feebly thrashing limbs it was people. Then one slipped an arm under his chin and exerted incredible pressure, and he was back in the white room. There was nothing here. No door, no window, no people.
"Am I dead?" He asked aloud, and his voice echoed as if a chorus were repeating him. He found that he could not move from the bed, indeed his only awareness of the bed was of a pressure beneath him indicating he had his back to something.
"Not yet my friend." The reply resonated and echoed, even though it sounded distant - a murmur at the far end of some ancient building. A man's voice, quiet and carefully pronounced, with an accent he couldn't place. He looked again at his missing arm. It didn't look like it had healed over - there was no bandage, just a sharp line halfway up his forearm where it used to continue on to an elbow, a forearm, a hand.
"I have something to tell you," the voice said again, booming yet subdued in the vast white "while you are a captive audience."
"Who are you?" Dexter asked. His voice was faltering, but every croaking syllable resonated.
"A friend. For now. Let's take a walk. Imagine you are at the theatre. You are here to see a private showing of a new play. A red carpet guides your steps through fine marble columns and alabaster walls to the seats. Your place is below, near the front, and there are ten steps to take. Take the steps with me: One, feeling warm and content in this place of culture. Two, noting the fresh scent of polish and the glint of the brass fittings. Three, enjoying the cozy darkness from the low lighting. Four, seeing how the seats stretch away on either side in perfect order. Five, feeling the spring of the soft carpet beneath your feet. Six, hearing the sound of your footsteps echoing in the hall. Seven, being excited and privileged to have this whole viewing to yourself. Eight, seeing the stage illuminated but empty like an open page waiting to be written. Nine, noticing the rich shade of the red curtains draping down. Ten, finding your place and your perspective once seated. Are you seated?"
Dexter's breathing had become slow and measured. He let himself be immersed in the fiction and the images it was conjuring. It was a conscious effort to answer, as if by making any decision to do so rippled the visionary pool he was enjoying. "Yes."
"The play is about a knight who has been given a dangerous quest by his king in a place far, far away. But the knight has not gone because his king asked him to. Why do you think he has gone?"
"Because he has nothing keeping him at home."
"Very good. The knight quickly becomes lost and surrounded by enemies on his journey. Why doesn't he surrender?"
"Because his enemies are merciless."
"I see. So what stops the knight from simply abandoning his quest and taking off into the sunset, never to return?"
Dexter's reply took a long time to come. "Fear. He's afraid without his duty he'd have nothing in his life."
"This play is very exciting. There is a segment where the cast require audience participation. Five placards are presented on the stage, each with a word, and you must choose a word from each selection. The words you choose are what the play mean to you."
Dexter's brow furrowed as he struggled with the abstract. "How do I know what the play means, you haven't told me what happens?"
"You tell me - Pierce, Joy, Find, Shadow, Beige."
"Uhh...Shadow."
"Strike, Excite, , Aquatic, Green."
"Ah, Strike."
"Lunge, Scared, Noise, Mirror, Red."
"Scared."
"Stab, Sorrow, Spell, Smoke, Sepia."
"Ahh...um...Sepia."
"Spend, Save, Shun, Send, Signal."
"S...Signal."
There was a delay before any reply came. "Very good Dexter."
"What does this mean for the play?"
"The Shadow is of course darkness, where dark deeds are done. When I say the word Shadow - listen to how I pronounce it, Shadow - doesn't it make you think of hiding your intentions?"
"Yes, it does."
"To Strike is to hit something, it's an expression of force. The word sounds powerful, doesn't it? Strike. It's almost enough to make you violent. Wouldn't you agree?"
"Yeah, kinda."
"Being scared is very natural, but it can make us act very unnaturally. People who are Scared will go to any lengths to escape. Isn't that right?"
" I guess so, yeah."
"Sepia is the colour of old photographs, like memories. Sepia. Are there things you want to remember when I say the word Sepia? Are there things you want to forget?"
"uhh...bit of both really."
"A Signal is a message, like a beacon or a sign. Don't you look for Signals Dexter? Isn't my voice a kind of Signal? They tell you what to do, don't they Dexter?"
"Yes they do. Now, what about the play?"
"The play is about a knight who has to stop being Scared in order to Strike at enemies lurking in the Shadow. His banner is Sepia and when he is victorious he will wave it as a Signal to his king. But the play isn't quite finished yet Dexter, and the actors can only show you what they have so far. They take a bow and thank you for watching their performance. You leave your seat and head up the ten steps back to the outside world..."
* * * * *
When Dexter awoke again, he was in a dimly lit, stone-walled room. It was not a prison or gaol, but a nicely fitted and meticulously tidy place straight out of a fairytale. Hide throws adorned the walls and floor. Carved wooden chairs stood either side of his bed, which was hard-matted but well cushioned with an abundance of airy pillows and draped with linen sheets and a patterned, woven throw. A single open window made by the lay of the stones was open, allowing air to circulate in the dank jungle heat. It had wooden shutters. The light in the room was flickering, and he traced it back to a flaming torch on the wall near a strong, metal-braced door.
He looked for his missing arm, and found it was there. It was trussed up in a form of cast that, on closer inspection, seemed to be made from overlapping leaves sealed by a tacky substance unknown. He tried to raise his head and a bolt of agony shot through him from neck to shoulder. He could hear business outside coming through the window, female voices. But of his own building he could make out no sounds. He realised that this was the real world. He had been dreaming, or delirious, or possibly dead before.
He faded in and out of consciousness. His arm ached sorely and his throat was parched. He felt groggy and lightheaded. He was woken later in the day by the heavy door opening. When he rolled his head so that he could see who had entered he was smitten. A tall, statuesque blonde wearing a white robe, or series of strategically draped ribbons more accurately, was standing at the foot of the bed. She seemed startled that he was awake, then she smiled, and for all the world Dexter had to check that he was not still dreaming. Her face was framed by braids of golden hair almost as a wreath, but even so bound in a tail that curled around her neck to hang off a shoulder. She wore jewellery, a silver belt with turqoise inlay, a silver tiara of sorts with little hanging pieces that jingled gently when she moved. In her hand she carried a clay jug.
"Hello there." The woman ventured in well-spoken Dafnese. "It seems Edgar was as good as his word when he claimed to be a physician. He insisted on mending your arm himself. You've suffered immeasurable pain, young scion. If there's anything I can do to make you more comfortable, please command me."
Dexter stared at the woman blankly for a moment, then spoke. "Who..." his voice croaked and he wondered how long it had been since he last used it. In response the woman darted forward, offering the jug which was full of water. Dexter drank thirstily, then tried again. "...Who the fuck is Edgar, who the fuck are you, and where the fuck am I?"
The woman's lovely brow raised. She seemed to consider whether to respond at all, then answered. "Edgar Weismann is known to us as a Master. He said you were a part of his mission to these lands, that you fell out of a great flying craft and that he almost didn't recognise you without your suit of armour."
Dexter groaned as he remembered all of the grim events that put him here, and even a vague impression of a little bald man with a smug tone and a hot secretary. He had an accent, but where from?
The blonde lady sat beside him on one of the wooden chairs and took his hand in both of hers. "My name is Sophitia. I am a priestess of Vitalia. I serve the spiritual and emotional needs of both Scions and Amazons. I have responsibility for your care now that you have been brought here by one of our maidens." Dexter's heart wrenched as he recalled both the excitement of meeting his red-haired guide, and the folly of letting himself be separated from her. The priestess continued. "You are in our village, Kalena. You are safe now."
Dexter nodded understanding and regretted the pain it caused in his neck. The blonde woman seemed to have more to say, and visibly came to a decision to say it. "What does fuck mean? I have a good grasp of the languages of the people beyond the Coils, but this is a new term to me."
The Dafnese trooper balked and felt very silly indeed. "It...its a curseword. It's impolite. I shouldn't have said it, I'm sorry."
"But what does it mean?"
"Ah...its a term for having sex. I think specifically its sex without any emotional involvement, a throwaway thing, something you don't care about. Like I said it was very rude and I shouldn't have said it, I was just confused about any of the things you were telling me."
"So...you want to fuck Edgar?"
"What? No!"
"You want to fuck me?"
"Ye...No, no, its not meant like that. It's like..." Dexter rubbed his forehead with his free, healthy hand. "...its..."
The woman smiled. "I know what it's like. I'm only teasing, I just wanted to see if you'd come clean about the meaning. You passed my test, young scion!"
There was an uncertain pause as the specialist came to terms with his embarrassment. "Good." he finally managed, and cleared his throat. "Can you tell me how I got here? You said a maiden brought me here. Did she have a red ponytail and a purple one piece on?"
"The very same! She found you collapsed and bleeding just as the Larinthians saw you. She was injured in the fight but brought you back here overnight. Poor girl nearly feinted when she handed you over."
"Where is she? I'd like to see her."
Sophitia's face dropped. "That is impossible just now. She is awaiting trial and punishment."
"What?"
"Eloping with a Scion is a...serious breach of protocol in our culture. There are a lot of people who are upset with her for making contact with you and failing to tell the rest of us. It presents a threat, both actual if you had been a Larinthian spy, and to our stability in so far as we have a way of doing things and that is considered to be cheating those ways."
"She saved my life. Is there something I can do?" Dexter felt anxiety tunneling away at him even as he spoke, and remembered that he no longer had the strength of Natalya to make any kind of difference with. He was just a crippled nerd in a boiler suit with whiplash.
The priestess slid from her chair to the bed, and lay alongside him as he rolled his head to face her awkwardly."Well, as it happens there is, but it will take some explaining about how things work here..."
* * * * *
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<I have two more characters to introduce. There will be a couple of others later but for now these are the initial threads I'm trying to tie together. Here's number 4.>
FISK’S ODYSSEY:
Lieutenant Commander Nathan Fisk awoke to see a sailor peering over his bunk, silhouetted by the open cabin door. “Sir – you’re needed on the bridge.”
Of course he was. He was the captain, for pete’s sake. Not just of this boat, but two others like it. Some captain, he thought to himself as he walked the metallic deck toward the bridge cabin, cramming his hat on as he went. Inside were First Officer Kitchener, Helmsman Greer and Engineer Trenner. They were surveying the coast with binoculars and gesturing. All Fisk could see was a stretch of golden sand dominated by an impenetrable wall of dense jungle, the infamous Fanteran malaise, their destination.
“Report.” Fisk said curtly.
“We can see the mouth of the river, but there are fortifications guarding the entrance. We don’t have the firepower to knock them out.” Kitchener dutifully reported, nervously stroking his moustache after finishing.
Engineer Casey Trenner handed him her binoculars. “Those bunkers can probably house anything up to 150mm guns. One hit and we’ve had it. Of course, they’ve only got a limited field and slow rate of fire but they’ll outrange us for sure. There isn't enough breadth to the river mouth to outrun their tracking.” As she spoke Nathan scanned the shoreline and saw two subtle lumps, one on each side of the river mouth. Less well concealed were camouflage nets that couldn't cover construction vehicles, and the telltale signs of increased fortifications under construction.
“Now or never...” He muttered, half to himself. Feeling the bemused silence that followed, he elaborated. “It’s what Admiral Gordon said about our mission. If we’re ever to find out what's down the river, we have to do it now.”
“You mean to attack?” Kitchener asked.
“No. I mean to sail straight past them faster than their gunners can track us. Signal all boats to follow our lead. Speed full ahead. Stand by to surrender the helm to me, Rating.”
“You can’t be serious? They’ll make mincemeat of us! They're going to get at least two shots off at our nose. We'll be sitting ducks! ”
“Kitchener, why do you think we're doing this in patrol boats? Anything bigger would be a sitting duck. We're faster than they can track. We have a numerical advantage, it will split their fire. Let’s do our jobs, shall we? Load our guns for smoke, fire as she bears.”
“Aye, captain.” Kitchener acknowledged grudgingly.
The boat, and the two following it bravely, turned in a wide arc so that they were facing directly the river’s opening. The Gulf of Fantay was fed by an intricate delta known as the Malaise, and their mission was to sail in to the maw of that monster and explore its anatomy. HQ believed that the Larinthians had established a naval base of some description somewhere in that region that was polluting the waters with submarines and small vessels. The presence of guns guarding the river entrance was the only confirmation he needed that the mission was not a complete waste of time.
Inevitably, there were two immense explosions that carried across the water. But although the sailors flinched and ducked, nothing came of it. For a while the ship continued to steer at a moderate rate, then the sound of trains rushing past and plumes of water rose to the height of monuments either side of them, showering the boat with spray and sending waves that rocked the propellers clean out of the water for a time. The boat’s own guns answered pitifully, the small 45mm pop-guns kicking out a smoke shell every few seconds. Slowly the small puffs of smoke began to form a screen in front of the bunkers, and as the other vessel’s guns joined in, the smoke completely obscured them from view. Safe in this protection, the crew visibly relaxed, until the sound of the next thunderous volley from the shore rolled across them.
The shells hurtled overhead and reared up harmlessly behind the small convoy. Twice more the big guns fired and twice more the shells went nowhere near, but then the boats were in the smoke and could only hope that their cover would protect them. They knew that the enemy gunners would be looking desperately for any sign of the emerging boats and that they would make it their last attempt to hit anything. Or, Fisk wondered to himself, perhaps they were preparing smaller, more manoeuvrable weapons to attack them with – that would be a bigger threat, but at least they could return fire.
As the smoke thinned the guns fired again, and this time the shells took only moments to pass them. One fell so close it blew the hats from the officers’ heads, before ploughing into the sea ahead of the next boat behind them, causing it to rise into the air and sending sailors flying. There was no time to stop for them. Fisk watched as one clung desperately to the railings on the back of the boat, right above its propellers. The small boats’ guns returned fire in defiance, but their small shells slapped against the concrete bunkers ineffectually. Another mighty shell rocked the boat off course, and Fisk had to wrench the wheel round to get them lined up properly. The risk at this speed was that if they veered too far to either side they could quickly run out of keel depth and strand themselves on the shore.
Then, the guns fired no longer. Instead Kitchener reported soldiers moving onto the beach with small arms and rocket launchers.
“Switch to flechettes and give fire!” Fisk ordered brusquely, though the order should have been obvious. Luckily for him his gunners had already started to load and their first shell landed just so, a few yards short to spit shards at the advancing infantry, felling three. One of the fallen sent a rocket high into the sky, like a lance. The other boats were also firing, trying to get the drop on the Larinthians before they could establish their aim. A scatter of machinegun fire pounded off the boat’s armoured side and caused the exposed crew to lie flat. Fisk crouched over the wheel and watched for incoming rockets. A telltale column of smoke and dust told him a rocket was on its way and he jinked the boat left toward the firer. The missile flew between his boat and the next. A second rocket from the starboard side ploughed into the water ahead of them and for a moment Fisk was afraid it had punctured the ship below the keel, which ought to have sunk them in moments at this speed. But despite an ominous metal clunk, very little happened.
Bullets were rattling across the boat like rain now, and the decks were quickly scoured of any crew, who took what little cover they could. Two of Fisks men were injured by the small arms fire and their blood was washing away with every splash and plume of water. They were so close that they could see the faces of their enemies now, the hateful expressions, the bared teeth as they drew aim at the fast boats. A rocket came at them from scarce meters away and he had to jink sharply to avoid it. In the stunned deafness of its passing he could think only of correcting their course. The boat steered straight in to the river’s mouth and they were now moving away from the shooters.
The boats behind had enjoyed comparatively safe passage as the enemy had concentrated their fire on Fisk's closer boat. Now they followed vengefully, anti-air guns hammering stitches of bullets across the Larinthians’ positions. Although the enemy pursued from the banks, firing a last ditch salvo of rockets that went wide and exploded in the thickening jungle, they eventually found themselves at peace and able to slow down a little.
“Report!” Fisk ordered. He listened carefully for anything urgent, but miraculously their only damage was structural and the crew cabin was exposed to the elements. The two men injured by the shooting were in great pain and their wounds were too serious to be treated properly on the boat.
“What now, captain?” Kitchener asked, still recovering his breath from the ordeal.
“We sail downriver. Find the Larinthian base. Photograph it, and get out. I want a double watch while we’re in this jungle, there could be any number of ambushes and outposts.”
“This is the worst place we could possibly be. No room to manoeuvre, and enemies behind us...”
“Are you going to get on with my orders, Kitchner, or just stand here bemoaning the state of the war?”
The first officer turned red in the face and busied himself with the watch. Casey Trenner propped a piece of solid bulkhead from their stores and looked at him. “Should I bother with this?”
“Just make sure we’re watertight. I don’t think we’ll be seeing much rain.” Fisk looked up pointedly, where a crystal clear sky burned above an increasingly thick canopy of towering tropical trees.
Strange bestial noises groaned from the depths of the jungle, and a single flare rose behind them where the enemy’s defences had been breached.
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These are great additions to this awesome story.
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Fantastic effort! Love the pace and how it is not rushed! Interesting concept and looking forward to where you take this... Very interested to see more of Natasha as it seems she may be the biggest strongest amazon the tribe have had for a while and I'm sure with his enthusiasm and pushing her she could be even better!
I'm strapped in and ready for the long ride! Bring it on!
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They had been sailing for two hours down the Malaise, picking their way through overgrown waterways and rocky outcrops. In some places there were strange boulders planted randomly in the middle of the river, protruding dangerously, causing their boats to swerve to avoid them. They needed to keep a keen watch for hazards, be it from the water itself which sometimes produced floating jetsam or hidden rocks, or from above where overhanging or fallen trees and branches could sweep a deck clear.
Fisk had taken the wheel personally, since there was no telling what lay ahead. As they rounded a deep oxbow, they heard the sounds of a terrific battle. Explosions thudded dully in the heavy midday heat, and missiles rushed skyward to arc down from the river to a position further inland. Fisk signalled his boats to action stations and they cautiously rounded another corner to see the river broaden out. At this junction of waterways, a Larinthian corvette was idling along with two shallow-keeled landing craft, now abandoned as their troop compliments were ashore. The corvette was flattening a simple-looking village of rock-walled buildings and wooden huts, most of which were ablaze. Its guns and missiles were making short work of the fragile structures. Meanwhile, the troops fought cover by cover against unseen assailants in the jungle, who fired back sporadically with what looked like arrows and rocks. The defenders evidently had some sort of catapult or ballista, as huge tree trunks and boulders were being thrown against the corvette to whack with a metallic crunch against its hull or superstructure. In response its guns angrily fired back.
There was no way to sneak past the corvette, so Fisk gunned his engines and ordered an attack run. With the corvette providing the basis of their assault, the isolated infantry could be made short work of once it was out of the way, and they had the element of surprise. Nathan booted his ship into flank speed and ordered his gunners to aim at the armaments of the corvette. Distracted and completely unprepared, the enemy ship was powerless to react as the column of gunboats approached with all guns blazing. Some of the enemy's weapons were unarmoured machineguns and flak cannons, or half-turrets, and the little boats wrought terrible damage on these fixtures and their crews. The Larinthians panicked on their deck, running to and fro and bumping into each other only to be cut down in a pink mist by automatic weapons designed to bring down aircraft. A brave few tried to turn machineguns on the small boats, but they only got off a short burst or so before perishing as the boats sawed past. Fisk note with some satisfaction that the Corvette's main gun was perforated several times by their little 45mm cannons, and after the second boat strafed it licks of flame began to emerge from the punctures. The vessel's rocket launcher fired a last salvo before cannon fire found its ready magazine in an impressive blast that seemed to bloat out from within the ship, sent a plume of flame and smoke into the air, and flattened the superstructure in a mess of gnarled and blackened metal. The Corvette was not a large ship, but to see it split in half and founder in the shallows in the wake of three gunboats was a rare but familiar elation to the Mymadon crews.
To his dismay Fisk saw that the majority of the Larinthian crew had left the ship and joined the attack on the village with small arms. Unable to target them cleanly from this side of the corvette, Fisk ordered his men to flank round and disembark, forming a cordon against which the enemy could not fall back. His crews were an elite group of volunteers, drawn from marine and Special Operations Bureau volunteers, as comfortable behind the wheel of a boat or loading a torpedo as they were slitting a throat or scaling a seawall. With their repeater rifles and dismounted machineguns, they took cover among the ruined stone structures and layed down a backstabbing fire on the sheltering Larinthian troops. It was classic Myrmad action, small ships wreaking havoc and even landing a shore party to harry the foe. He regretted disabling the Corvette so efficiently, as its weapons could wreak havoc here.
As the Larinthians realised they were now attacked from behind, confusion reigned. Those committed to pushing out from the village could not turn about, and in any event were not yet threatened by the newcomers. Those caught unawares in the village tried to warn the squads closest to themselves of the new danger, only to be met with confused dithering. Whoever was in charge of these poor conscripts failed them utterly as each squad fended for itself. Some ran from the initial engagement. Others ran valiantly into it, only to be mown down by the waiting Myrmadons.
“What are they shooting at...?” One of the Myrmadons muttered, referring to the outlying squads creeping toward the jungle where unseen assailants rained arrows, rocks and boulders on them. But they had other concerns. The Larinthians who were organised were stopping to direct cover fire at their position from the stony ruins of broken buildings. Shattering those redoubts was the best way to ensure they kept running.
“The crew of B-31 with me, B-32 to the right!” Fisk shouted, waving his rifle to direct the sailors. Engineer Trenner was directing a machinegun team with her wrench and now helped them to redeploy to support his orders. Fisk and Kitchener led a hasty attack on the closest knot of enemies, some Larinthians crowding behind a bellowing Trueblood as he tried to direct their fire on the advancing sailors. A grenade from Fisk’s team fell short, but then the sailors were on them with cutlasses and rifle butts.
Fisk fired from his hip, wounding a man and putting him to the floor, then cracked his rifle into another man’s face and slammed home a boot. Discarding the rifle, Fisk drew his cutlass and swept aside a lunging rifle bayonet, cramming his free hand into the enemy’s neck and pushing him at a rating that clubbed him down with a shotgun. Turning to continue, Fisk found himself face to face with the Trueblood, a giant of a man with gold-ringed ears and heavy, segmented armour. The man grinned with battle-relish and used his assault cannon like a scythe, sweeping its vile-looking blade laterally at hip height. Nathan skipped backwards like a dancer to avoid the swings, but one of his men staggered into the danger zone and the Larinthian leader flattened him with a halberd swing. Fisk leaped in to attack, but his sword glanced harmlessly off the man’s armour, and he had to fall out of the way of the reprisal. The Trueblood arced his weapon down in a blow that would have cut Fisk clean in two, but he parried the attack, sending the bayonet plunging into the soil beside him. He kicked the man in his face, sending him back, and leaped to his feet. Now he had the advantage, and swept high and then low. The high attack was avoided with a surprisingly nimble lean, but the low attack caught a shin-guard and lodged, sweeping the man off his feet but trapping the sword in the process. Fisk reached for his pistol as the Larinthian fumbled for his own. As the Trueblood produced his, Fisk shot him six times, the last round finally finding the fallen man's unarmoured chin, spattering blood across the green leaves all around.
The bitter fighting closed off with a few final gunshots. Fisk recovered his sword and gathered his surviving men, all but one in fact, and looked across the battlefield. There were more Larinthians than it first appeared. He had wondered if the Larinthian ground forces were a little thin, but evidently more had disembarked from the corvette in the initial attack than he first counted. Some sixty enemies were regrouping across the village site, descending from the jungled outskirts to take cover behind the shattered huts and walls, firing sporadically at his men and the advancing villagers. At their centre was a tough unit of Truebloods in the husk of a ruined building, all in their bulky gold and silver armour, standing out with heavy weapons. That group was coordinating the others, having such a concentration of bellicose slave drivers to act as both a menace and an armoured core for their conscripts.
Lieutenant Porter was nowhere to be seen and Fisk knew the young officer had hedged his bets and stayed with the boats where his squads fire would have limited effect, but also be under little threat themselves. He had hoped the lad would bring his crew up to the fight, but it wasn't to be, leaving him with close to forty troops in his party. A rush of noise drew his attention to the outskirts again where, with a whooping cry, the native villagers attacked. Statuesque women rushed forward with terrifying speed and power toward the Larinthians, using gymnastic tumbles and somersaults to confuse the aim of the Larinthians trying to gun them down. Some leaped from high ground, bounding across the rooftops or ruins with incredible agility and inhuman displays of agility. The average Larinthian seemed hopelessly outmatched against this foe. Fisk watched as a soldier, surprised by one of the charging women appearing on the ruined wall above him, fired five or six shots into her. But she simply dropped down onto him, smashing through his head with a fist before laying about his comrades who swung wildly with bayonets or simply broke and ran.
“Something is wrong about all of this. Those people...they’re not human!” Kitchener breathed.
“But they’re fighting the Larinthians, and if we don’t do something, they’re going to lose.” Fisk responded, pointing to the shattered long hall where the Truebloods were firing at the ‘mounted’ riders, rockets and automatic weapons felling them in seconds despite their valiant displays of courage and tenacity. One woman was gunned down three times by the gatling cannon, her body showing hundreds of bloody gouges and perforations that seemed to be stymied by her muscular build. Some unnatural quality was evoked by them. Fisk watched in astonishment as one of the young women swatted aside an incoming rocket, sending it cartwheeling overhead. Another took a direct hit from a grenade launcher but was merely felled - blackened, bruised, cut and dazed, but alive. A normal person, or group of people, would have been vaporised. The high-ups had been right all along. There were certainly people here, and if they could be persuaded to help the war effort, what a fighting force they could be!
But the Trueblood's seemed to have a plan, and they concentrated fire methodically if brutally. Hand-to-hand fighting that had engulfed their right flank was laid waste to as the heavily armed slave drivers hammered friend and foe alike, scouring the ruins and punishing the tenacious female warriors for their courage. As heavy weapons converged, no amount of endurance, agility or force of will could resist the devastating firepower. Finally this cresendo in the battle died away, and the former Larinthian position was a smoking charnel house of broken bodies and slung, bloody flesh clinging to the walls. The remaining villagers were huddled together as if waiting for the battle to finish, or waiting for some opportunity to attack safely which would never come. The women with them seemed young, barely older than teenagers, yet they still herded them like guardians. It was then that Fisk noticed the majority of survivors in this group were aghast males who seemed rightly despondent in the loss of the brave female warriors. Some clutched old-looking rifles but their shooting died away as the Larinthians now turned their attention to Fisk's forces.
“What is wrong with those people?” Someone demanded.
Fisk was completely confused. They fought as if they had no knowledge of modern technology, and because of that they threw themselves to their deaths. A few were separated from the rest, sniping carefully and with some success at the entrenched enemy with scavenged carbines, and even a few crossbows. These seemed to be - utterly bizarrely - men riding on the backs of women, who had rushed out behind the initial wave of attacking warriors and taken positions unseen while the close combat went on. They wore a variety of armours, none of which seemed especially suited to resisting bullets or shrapnel, and certainly none of them offering reliable coverage of their bodies. Fisk noted that some of the girls were firing bows and arrows or hurling javelins which nearly perforated the stone rubble and easily posed a threat to the armoured truebloods, who ducked out of sight. Fisk realised these were a people in whom the female was the warrior and protector. But against a foe such as the Larinthian war machine, no one could be protected. Somehow these people had survived without the industry that now dominated the war, and against the firepower of technology, their might and courage counted for little.
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Fantastic effort! Love the pace and how it is not rushed! Interesting concept and looking forward to where you take this... Very interested to see more of Natasha as it seems she may be the biggest strongest amazon the tribe have had for a while and I'm sure with his enthusiasm and pushing her she could be even better!
I'm strapped in and ready for the long ride! Bring it on!
Thank you for your encouragement!
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Great continuation of a fantastic story. Well done.
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He watched as they huddled, protecting their menfolk like a flock of sheep. Explosions and bursts of automatic fire were severing the branches and shattering the rocks they sheltered behind. The commander followed the carnage back to its source at the broken building on a low slope, just where the ravaged village met the jungle proper.
“They’ve made that farmhouse their redoubt,” Fisk pointed out. “If we can dislodge them from there, the others will be vulnerable. It’s that position on the end that’s tethering the line. If only we could bring guns to bear..we'll just have to get close enough to use grenades."
"Sir, that's very risky, we're not..."
But Kitchener's words were not heeded, as the commander waved for his men to follow and set off at a run toward the enemy. It took what felt like minutes for the Larinthians to notice they were on the move, and they had all but made it to cover around a collapsed hut and outlying wall before a few carbine shots pinged off the stones. Fisk called for a grenade and ordered covering fire. His men happily obliged, peppering the farmhouse with dusty ricochets as he pulled the pin and launched the thing as hard as he could. The farmhouse was about eighty meters away, and this was the last cover they could get. The grenade landed a good ten meters short, exploding in a plume of dirt in the half-sown rice paddy before it. Angry bursts of fire raked his position in reply.
"We could go back to the boats and try to manoeuvre the guns onto them?" Kitchener suggested.
"By the time we get ourselves organised they'll have dispersed into the jungle, and maybe taken these people down on the way."
"Sir, these people are not our mission."
Incensed at this challenge to his authority, Fisk seized his first officer by the lapels. "The objective of this entire operation is to make contact with the natives here. This is our first encounter Lieutenant. Do you think our negotiations will go well when they ask what we've done for them and all we can say is that we saw a village get flattened?"
Despite the exchange of gunfire there was a tension as the nearest men, even hunkering down, exchanged significant glances. Kitchener had gone red in the face. "No sir. You're right."
Fisk released the man's lapels and pointed out one of his men. "Archer, you pitched for the fleet cricket team. You have a go."
The soldier received a grenade and pulled the pin. Fisk called for covering fire again and he threw the metal sphere as hard as he could. It landed short but bounced and rolled up to the wall before detonating harmlessly.
"It's too far sir. We might just have to leg it out there and throw on the charge."
"Too risky." No sooner had Fisk spoken than a hail of gatling fire raked their rocky defences. Kitchener's hand was on his arm. "We've got company sir."
The commander followed his first officer's eyes to where a breathtakingly beautiful woman wearing nothing but a sky blue bikini was crouched behind a collapsed wall behind them, watching. Her hair was pale gold and hung past shoulder length as she, realising she was noticed, shook it away from her face. She was taller than any of the sailors by at least an inch, and her body was exquisitely toned and athletic. Without a care in the world she stepped out of her cover, flinched at a volley of carbine shots that snapped around her, and rushed directly toward one of the sailors. Reaching him, she bent down and tugged a grenade from his belt, then threw it for all the world like she was sending a paper aeroplane on its way. The grenade landed inside the farmhouse through a hole in its roof, causing the occupants to panic and scatter. They fell over themselves to escape and, once in the open, were gunned down cheerfully by Fisk's incredulous men. The grenade never went off, because the pin was still in it, but the effect was good enough on the target.
The sailors laughed admiringly. The girl seemed to curl up shyly under their collective gaze, but Fisk hazarded to approach. “Good girl!” He patted her on the arm cheerfully, then turned to his men and waved his rifle for them to come up.
“Now everyone, with me!” Fisk roared triumphantly with his sword outstretched. His band of sailors followed him rowdily toward the Larinthians’ last redoubt as smoke grenades coughed ahead of them. A single survivor struggled to his feet in time to be gunned down as his men took up position behind the building and poured fire into the exposed flanks of their enemies. The conscripts peeled away from the wall and made for the jungle, while enraged Truebloods turned their heavy weapons on Fisks men. A few backed away but were encouraged when the oppressive gatling cannons fired, silencing all opposition.
The blonde girl who had accompanied them leaped up onto the holed roof and ran across it, leading the ripsaw deluge of fire up a broken wall, somersaulting over the heads of the closing combatants, and onto the unfortunate shoulders of a Trueblood. Caught off-balance with his heavy weapon, the brute could only flounder in rising panic as her legs locked around his head. Using the whiplike agility of her body and the considerable momentum of her flying start, the Larinthian was flipped from foot to head as if propelled from a car crash. Fisk stared in awe as three hundred pounds of muscle and armour were tossed around like a ragdoll, bowling two more over in a cry of alarm. The man's neck was broken before he even hit the floor. Then his Myrmadons crashed home in a desperate rush, using the opening the girl's fantastic spectacle had made. She was still moving, but Fisk lost her as he lunged home with his cutlass.
His adversary was a typical Larinthian Trueblood - tall, bulky muscle filling the power-assisted bands of thick metal that comprised his armour. His lunge was aimed at the unarmoured face, but a deft side-step and his blade glanced off a brassy pauldron. The enemy responded by burying a big fist in his gut, the blow almost lifting him off his feet and producing a gasping retch. Another hammer blow landed across his neck, driving him into the floor, but he turned the fall into a feeble roll and evaded a soccer kick aimed at his falling head. The Larinthian laughed at his weakness and produced a wicked looking blade - the length of a forearm with a secondary protrustion, flamed shaped and broad like its wielder. As Fisk wheezed to his feet the Trueblood dashed for him.
Fisk was knocked sprawling back to the floor just as the grinning enemy had him, and he saw that the blonde woman had interposed herself in his place. The Larinthian was on her then and she caught the blade with her bare hands. There was abject fear on the man's face as he realised his adversary had changed, but then desperation caused him to press home with every ounce he could muster. Off-balance, the girl fell against the crumbling wall which collapsed partially under the impact. Now underneath her opponent, she seemed to be pinching the blade so as to keep it from cutting her, but Fisk fumbled for his revolver as the Trueblood seized this fortuitous leverage and pressed down on the blade with every ounce he could muster. The girl screamed in pain as blood began to trickle from the blade's thirst.
Fisk fired. There was a hollow click. He'd been so focussed on turning the enemy's flank he never reloaded the damn thing after his last tussle.
What happened next would stay with the sailor for the rest of his life. As he pushed himself to his feet the girl's screams turned into a gutteral growl of defiance. Her face changed from that of a tortured beauty to something...else. It was as if the pain was an act now dropped, or as if some other emotion had taken over. He'd seen similar changes overcome men in times of action - the meek turned to monsters, the exuberant reduced to cringing helplessness. This was as if pain had been turned to determination. The Larinthian's grimace of stolen triumph gave way to the amazon's rising scorn, and to Fisk's complete fascination, the girl pushed back - blade and all - until the Larinthian looked like just like a cartoon trying to plug a burst water main. He had no time to utter whatever astonished curse was on his lips before she abruptly turned the blade up and out of his grip, so that his neck fell on it bloodily. She discarded the armoured carcass with a disgusted grunt, and then collapsed against the wall breathlessly. The battle around them had ended. The silence was deafening.
She noticed Fisk watching and her gaze was a cooling inferno, and as her expression softened so did her resilience. Her hands were gushing blood from the deep cut inflicted by the blade, and so Fisk, the spell of spectatorship broken, rushed to bandage them. The girl was disturbed by his sudden approach but when he paused for her to see what he was doing she allowed him to bind her wounds. The cuts were serious - he thought he saw a flash of white bone. They would need a suture, but for now he applied haemostatic powder which the girl flinched and tore away from thanks to its mild exothermic reaction. Fisk found himself pleading for her trust. "Please. It'll stop the bleeding, and keep it from going septic." After a moment's wary hesitation which he was sure had nothing to do with his words, she let him finish.
As he wrapped her hands she insisted on touching him with the other one, caressing his face gently and stroking his hair. In that moment Fisk felt that the sum of his military career had brought him to a moment of destiny, and he understood his mission here, in this strange tropic land, with a new significance. Whatever had just happened had spared his life, and was nothing short of miraculous. He took the girl's hand in his own and kissed it gently.
Kitchener was at his side breathlessly. "Larinthians are dead to the last man sir. What an action! We've taken a few wounded ourselves however and the crew of '33 back on the Corvette have fatalities. Sir?"
Fisk ignored him, instead returning the heady smile of the girl who held his hand tightly. “I have to go and see to things." he told her "But I’ll be back, I promise.” He got up to leave but she tugged him down again, almost off his feet. Even in her exhaustion she caught most of his weight with her injured hand, and when he regained his balance beside her she slipped it to his side tenderly. Still smiling, though tears silently ran down her cheeks.
Kitchener’s hand grabbed Nathan’s shoulder. “Sir, we have casualties to attend to.”
“I’m coming.” Fisk replied curtly. He looked at the girl and nudged some of her tears away with his hand, then stood to leave against her murmured protests. She tried to get up but the pain in her hands made her first try abortive. Tiredly she rolled onto her front and used her elbows to gain the height to bring a knee up, and then she rose to follow him. Nathan felt shocked and disconnected, as though he were watching someone else’s actions. Something about this action had informed him of his place in the world, and his actions were not necessarily subject to his will. Or perhaps they were, but it was no accident that it was his will that had been brought to this place.
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Great addition. I am looking forward to the rest of this amazing story.Well done. :clap:
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The crew of gunboat B-33 was down to eleven able ratings. Lieutenant Porter was dead, decapitated early on in the fight by a slice of rocket shrapnel. Fisk felt guilty about doubting the lad during the fight, but aside from his death there were six wounded in varying states of injury from that boat. Of his own boats crew, one man had died during the clash on the flank, and another was killed and three more wounded during the final charge. Engineer Trenner had lost both her gunners and was herself wounded by shrapnel in the arm, but still insisted she was fighting fit. Kitchener was unharmed. Fisk realised he himself had been grazed in no less than six places by bullets or ricochets and tutted at the state of his longcoat. He wondered how much luck he had expended in the foolhardy battle. He told himself it was in a good cause, but they would be hard pressed to manage the wounded. He felt energised by purpose. This was it - the nub of everything they were trying to do here. Despite the usual fatigue after combat, he rolled his sleeves up and prepared to operate on the wounded as the flotillas surgeon.
The village was decimated. Not a structure stood and the survivors howled and grieved over the many corpses scattered about. The men sat in shocked silence while the women fell into horrendous fits of rage and sobbing that could be heard no matter where the sailors busied themselves. The two groups avoided each other, the natives out of distrust of the newcomers, and the Navy out of worry for the strange, powerful warrior-women. As Fisk busied himself with the casualties, he ordered that the corvette and the battlefield be looted for supplies. The mess cabin of his patrol boat would be turned to a makeshift surgery. Therein he took on the wounded one by one, treating the most serious injuries first. One man could not be saved, a bullet lodged so close to his spine that any action would cause instant paralysis while leaving it meant that would happen inevitably. He was treated to an overdose of morphine, a relatively pleasant death. Once his sailor’s injuries were treated he left without a word, entrusting the tidy up and accounting to Kitchener, and crossed to the villagers who regarded him warily.
He saw that some of the men were groaning in pain, seriously wounded, while their erstwhile guardians stood or knelt nearby. He crossed to one and began to examine him, but one of the women tore him away from the patient. He looked at their watchdog, a brown-haired woman with pieces of shrapnel perforating her arm. He gestured at the injury and after some remarks in a language he couldn’t recognise, she allowed him to examine the wounds. She refused to sit or be made comfortable. He tried to administer a pain killer but she shrugged him off warily. Eventually he simply tugged the pieces free. She made not a sound, but watched him cautiously as he worked. The largest piece caused her to gasp when he removed it, but it was the way he treated the open wounds that earned him any trust. He cleaned and wrapped each injury carefully, meticulously, missing nothing. When he was finished the woman seized him suddenly and pulled him into a fierce embrace, stuffing his head into her shoulder and cradling him there for a few moments before pointing him to the men.
“They need to go in there,” he explained pointing at his patrol boat “I can’t do anything out here.”
The woman snapped at her compatriots, who to Fisk’s amazement, simply picked up the patients tenderly and carried them in a short procession toward the ship. Helping in her wounded comrades was - astonishingly - the blonde haired girl who had wrestled for his life. Every time she brought a new patient to be seen, she smiled at him and seemed to linger to watch him work. One of the wounded men took Fisk completely by surprise by speaking in perfect, if accented, Myrmad.
“I can help once you get this shrapnel out of my leg. We have some hollistic medicines - poultices mainly, the plantlife around here is a goldmine of medicinal properties."
“You’re...a Larinthian?” Fisk asked as they walked.
“Was. A medical levy. I ran away and found this place. I came here with two others, but now I’m the only one left. The other men here are from all over. Deserters like me mostly. Stranded sailors. Fallen pilots. Most are waifs and strays from other villages. There were thirty three of us this morning. Now there are ten if the wounded survive.”
Fisk looked at the man with some concern. “I'm sorry for your losses. It looked like a whitewash from the water.”
"Yes. You made short work of that corvette. Some of the amazons were trying to flatten the turrets with boulders but...they had to be close to do it. Too close."
"How come you're hiding behind the women, all of you?"
At this the man looked indignant, but lowered his head sadly. “Way of life here. We’ve come to rely on our amazons for protection. You'll see for yourself before long I imagine. I just wish we could teach them that discretion is the better part of valour.”
"You and me both. It was a mess out there. I've never seen anything like it. Couldn't you have stopped them?"
The man simply shook his head sadly. "Better men than me have tried. When they killed the Princess the others went berserk. It was all we could do to keep them together and wait for a better moment to counterattack. In the end they saw what you were doing and their instincts to protect took over."
Nathan watched the man for any trace of dishonesty, but found none. A long, uncomfortable silence prevailed until an agonised groan from one of the wounded being moved snapped him back to the here and now. "Well, I think he has priority over you mister...?"
"Arman Vahid. Medical Orderly, 1363rd Legion."
Nathan balked. "...how many legions are there?"
Arman simply shrugged, and sat beside another injured man and checked his breathing. The Myrmad resolved to take this matter up in more detail later, but for now he busied himself with surgery. He managed to save all of the wounded men except for one, who bled to death on the table. The other ‘amazons’ had to wrestle with his aggrieved widow, guardian, or whatever she was to keep her from tearing Fisk apart. Exhausted, he dispatched orders to his crew to take an inventory of the site and had something to drink.
As he felt the sweet scorch of rum, he heard someone enter and sit on the table behind him. He turned to see the young blonde woman looking up at him with the biggest blue eyes he had ever seen. Fisk felt almost paralysed by her gaze. "Thank you," he blurted awkwardly "for saving my life." There was no response. She simply held his gaze, blinked, and swung her legs idly. She must have sensed the expectation in the pause, as she smiled nervously. "Do...you understand what I'm saying? No?"
More blank silence. Seeing her sat in the confines of the room put her stature in sharp perspective. Her legs seemed unending, her statuesque proportions made the spartan furniture of the boat's cabin seem stumpy and insufficient by comparison. Her bright hair and skin against the cold, grey emulsion paint seemed to shine under the artificial light. He couldn't place her age. Her face was full-featured, with high brow fringed by her golden hair and cheeks that gave her a proud profile. Her jaw was clean lined and softened by generous lips. Though dirtied by dust, blood and flecks of brass, wood and stone, her stance now was of a bored youth waiting out a detention, shoulders relaxed and slouching though her tight abdominals seemed to defy this example. She caught his admiring eye and smiled again nervously. He had to remind himself that barely an hour before she had won a fight for her life with brutal strength.
Fisk showed his hands, palms up. "Let's see those hands." She seemed to comprehend and held her hands out, mimicking him. When he pulled the blood-soaked bandages off he was both appalled and fascinated by what he found.
There had been a lot of blood, but it had already stopped flowing. The wounds were nowhere near as deep as he had expected, and in the hour or so since the battle they had coagulated shut completely. Furthermore as he carefully wiped away some of the gory powder residue from around the cuts he found the tissue was already mending. This was recovery he would have expected to find in perhaps two weeks' time. Fisk hesitated as to how to proceed. Stitching would be unnecessary at this rate, and it was never painless to do. He didn't much like the idea of having to poke this lady with a needle. He finished cleaning the wounds and no bleeding resumed, so he erred on the side of caution and bound them with fresh bandages. Fisk mentally tallied the attributes he had observed of these warrior women and added what he found here to the list. A situation that would have cost a normal person all of their fingers and then their neck, had resulted in mere shallow cuts - and to cap that off, the injuries were mending at a very accelerated rate.
"I know its sore, but you have to leave them be. They'll mend clean, I assure you. What you need now, is rest." He put his hands together and rested his head on them, miming sleep. She blinked and nodded at him, but when he gestured for her to leave, she looked confused.
"Ok, well you're welcome to sit here for a while." He said with a tired sigh. As he made for the door however he heard bare feet slapping on the metal floor and then her hand was holding his. He looked at her with a bemused frown, but at her full height she had a few inches on him and the emotion in her eyes was moving. It was hopeful optimism. It was desperate longing. It was vulnerable pleading. "What do you need?" Fisk demanded, trying to break the spell of her gaze.
But when he tried to recover his hand, she held on firmly. Then she was close to him, height level, studying him with her blue eyes, her lips parted. He could feel her breath. Her free hand touched his face, gently, as if fearful of electrocution or scolding. Fisk was transfixed with battling responses. He was tired and needed to rest. He was a stranger in a strange land, and here was a beautiful stranger. She wanted him, and he realised he wanted her too. But this was all too soon. Like a bile rising from within, an inhibition prevailed. What would his crew think if they saw him now? Her body nudged toward his, and he felt her thighs and bust make brush against him.
Her lips were trying to find his but he backed away until he hit the mess cabinets with a clatter of trays and pans. The noise broke their contact and she stood with shoulders hunched, as a cat might after causing mayhem on a shelf. Fisk collected the fallen trays and cradled them like a shield between his body and hers. Her eyes still sought his and when her shoulders relaxed and she stepped toward him he turned away to put the trays back. "I have to go now, excuse me." He mumbled, and left.
When he appeared on deck one of his ratings announced him and those around clicked to attention. Instinctively he reached for the peak of his cap, but it wasn't there. It must have fallen off when he clattered into the cabinets. As smoothly as he was able, he turned the errant gesture into a casual salute, dismissing his crew back to their duties. He ran an embarrassed hand through his hair with a deep sigh, and headed for shore where his troops were raking the battlefield for resources.
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Great work.
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Simply top-notch.............can't wait for the next chapter, love the interactions and simply details that paint such a visual masterpiece......Karma to you
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Cheers gents for your kind encouragement.
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An action of that magnitude would merit some form of response, and they would have to move quickly. It was possible that they had managed to strike quickly enough and cause enough confusion that the enemy had no time to broadcast any details, only that they had been attacked by a new party. Nevertheless, the supplies, wounded and salvage were gathered onto the surviving boats. The landing craft were commandeered as store ships, where the inventoried weapons and ammunition were hoarded. Among the arsenal of captured weapons were some of the truebloods' heavy support weapons - gatling cannons fed by backpack-mounted belts, Assault cannons firing 50mm shells with rotating ammunition selectors, and long-barrelled 20mm anti-matter rifles. The weapons were heavy to use and so Trenner and the other blackthumbs tried their hands at mounting the weapons as pintle weapons to supplement the boats, with some success. The golden-banded armour was made to fit their build, which was very bulky with muscle. It was power-assisted, not powered fully, and so trying it on, his men found it was more of a hindrance and absolutely useless on the confines of their little boats. Trenner insisted on keeping a set as a souvenir, but Fisk knew she would find time to take a closer look at it.
Among the supplies were unspent RPG launchers, grenades, rudimentary medical supplies and rations - enough only for a few days, which told them a lot about how far they were from the enemy's supply chain here. They also found some intelligence, including maps and briefing materials that Fisk ordered Arman, the Larinthian medical levy who had deserted to live in this village, to translate these articles. They pieced together The highest ranking officer was a Nāvsarvān, a naval officer roughly junior to his own rank. This man had stayed on the corvette and was killed by the explosion when the missile ammunition went up - they found his tattered jacket and one of the gunners kept the dead man's intact insignia as a souvenir.
Of the survivors there were twelve men - most wounded, some severely - and eight women. The amazons, as they called themselves, kept to themselves and fiercely guarded their little herd of men. More than once he had to intervene to turn his inquisitive men away and set their guests back at ease. They were given most of the Larinthian rations, which they ate unhappily, and before they set off a couple of the girls had caught a few fish and some foraged berries with their bare hands which they presented to the crews as meagre thanks. The able bodied men were assigned to help Casey Trenner, who complained that teaching them to do anything useful would be more problematic than being left alone, but as luck would have it one turned out to have been a vehicle technician in his former life and between the two of them the third was brought up to speed on menial tasks.
Arman dutifully translated the collected documents, starting with the map and briefing notes that had come from the dead Truebloods. He said that some elements were written in a military cypher he claimed to know nothing of, but the bits he could read indicated that this was the last part of an operation called Ploughshare. It was a series of clearances along the length and breadth of the river delta, and according to the Area of Operations this village - which was called Ulani by their guests, but simply designated V.41 by the enemy - was the last riverside settlement to be cleared. It could therefore be assumed that the Larinthians had total control of the riverways beyond this point. However, Arman volunteered, there were other villages inland from the river that might not be affected. Though the women seemed very reluctant to talk about it, he intimated that other villages were aware of their neighbours going missing but that their respective council's had either elected to not get involved, or actively permitted the destruction, possibly as some kind of cruel bid to increase their own status or power. Arman suggested there might be Larinthian infiltrators who were part of a broader, long-term plan to pacify the region who had inserted themselves into amazon society by becoming "masters". When pressed as to what this meant, the conscript simply explained it was what the Amazons called an accepted man of their tribe, or village.
Any location of another base was carefully encoded, but using the maps and the inventory of the captured rations Fisk and his officers managed to gauge the distance and expected travel time that would put a base in a fairly certain region on the river, coincidentally at the neck of the Malaise's tributary rivers, the point from which they all separate. He was sure this would be the naval base command speculated about, big enough to hold oceangoing corvettes and maybe larger ships too. But the river was a bottleneck. The Larinthians would know trouble was coming if any form of warning had been given, and it would have to come from the river. Unless he could find a way for it not to.
The news about potential infiltration troubled Fisk. What a force of nature these people had proven to be, sadly expended and extinguished against the crushing weight of implacable Larinthian firepower. It made enough sense to be compelling however, as he couldn't imagine any sort of society - even one as primitive and disparate as this one - would fail to band together against a slave-taking enemy like Larinth. His initial conversation with Arman had painted a picture of a semi-feudal society, caste based, where men ruled as a council and took amazons as...lovers, guardians, vassals, concubines, whatever...in an elaborate series of rituals and trials. Decisions were hard to come by, even though they were simply resolved. There were checks and balances to their power through the Priestesses, and apparently the Princess, which each village has and guards fiercely and who has her own guards, that she names herself. A Princess implied a Queen, but when Fisk pressed him on this point he simply shrugged and said he'd never met her or anyone who claimed to have if she existed. Every village had a Princess who was treated like a monarch, with her own retinue, who acted as a kind of self-correcting influence over the village. She and the Priestesses, served the justice of the village and had some power to influence, compel or even banish masters. Arman seemed fairly dismissive of the rituals and the stringent caste system the amazons lived by. It was as if he was ruled by it but didn't believe in it. That made perfect sense from everything Fisk had seen of these broken deserters.
The shakedown was taking too long. His men were taking rest breaks but they needed to be underway as soon as possible, and Fisk snapped at his officers who in turn snapped at their crews to galvanise and bring in the harvest of salvage, tying and stowing equipment ready for travel. The Amazons and their male wards kept to themselves but he noted the men had scavenged their own supplies and the women were bearing abnormally large bundles or wicker baskets salvaged from the destruction. The able bodied were foraging or bringing in animals that had scattered from their enclosures, and one couple seemed to be harvesting what could be taken from vine plots and outlying orchards. Casey Trenner, his chief engineer, flagged him down as he prowled the riverbank looking for idlers.
"Cap, you should see this." She jerked an oily thumb at the broken corvette behind her. "Boat's called the Gorbeh, and she's definitely from around here."
Fisk noted the ships emblem, which showed a black cat snarling wearing a necklace of familiar Larinthian gold and blue serrated Usekh collar."How do you mean?"
She led him to the rear of the vessel where the half-sunken ship had settled on the river bed. She stopped in view of the ship's stern. "What do you see Cap?"
"It's the arse-end of a boat, Casey."
"She doesn't have any screws, Cap. This ship's a waterjet."
Fisk looked again at the vessel and realised it had no funnel." What?"
"This corvette is a waterjet. It picks up water and shunts it out at high velocity to generate thrust. Size of this engine, I'm guessing it can hit fifty knots at least - though on this river, that'd be asking for trouble. Normally you see that kind of thing on small boats - like our size, for example - which are small enough to be manageable at high speed and wont roll over or stack into something before they can turn properly. But this tub? Shallow draught, straight runs up and down the river, she's never seen an ocean - no salt residue on the waterline, no barnacles, just a bunch of slimy reeds. On which note. Some of the stuff I've scraped off this hull is going to be bad news for our boats Cap. I'm talking tangled screws and blown pistons. These weeds aren't like anything we have back home, and I'm guessing the paddle on this boat was mainly to cut down on maintenance. They wouldn't even have to turn the boat much for this kind of work, though she's got thrusters at the bow for lateral manoeuvring. And this armament? Pretty heavy for any corvette class. My guess is they repurposed a corvette to serve as a riverine assault craft. She'd be top heavy on any kind of wave, but a river? Not so much. Looks like they went to town fitting a masticator to the jet intake to grind up any shit that gets sucked in from the river. Normally a waterjet would be highly susceptible to blockages, but I wouldn't want to be a fish getting sucked up into this thing."
Fisk felt more thunder clouding the skies of his thought as he contemplated the ramifications of these adjustments. He was presented here with proof that a Larinthian ship had been converted for use on this waterway - a waterway he was intending to sail further down - and none of this work would have been possible without heavy industry. A wharf or a shipyard even. He knew the enemy had overwhelming force, but a facility of that scale would be beyond the means of his small party to effectively damage. Could his commanders really have condemned him to such odds so blindly? He thanked Trenner for the observations and ordered her to extract anything useful from the carcass of the stricken Corvette.
The Amazons seemed to favour pyres for their dead. They also were adamant that no men, not even their own, should touch the bodies. Fisk watched with some disdain as they piled bodies together -those that could be gathered whole - neatly, but piled nevertheless . They erected makeshift bonfires over them using the broken timbers and bamboo walls and whatever shattered trees were at hand. More interestingly, he watched one of the women grind a palm-sized chunk of wood into a dust merely by rubbing her hands together, fine enough to take on the wind where it spilled from her fists. This kindling was lit from the vigorous friction between a stick and a log, which the amazons seemed to have little problem at all with making. Their pyres lit, the women seemed to watch the smoke rising into the sky for a time before returning to their menfolk, who watched from afar. There didn't seem to be any speaking, but three or four of the women paused longer and Fisk could see from their body language that they were crying. He saw his saviour among them. The others who seemed to have men to return to made a brave showing of stoicism.
As the last of his crew scrabbled tiredly aboard their boats and the refugees recalled their mourners, there was only one direction he could go. Forwards.
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Fantastic continuation. I am looking forward to the next part. Great job.
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Although the Landing Craft made for excellent store ships, Fisk wanted one of them up front, crewed by a handpicked team of four, including one of the Larinthian deserters so the boat could respond accordingly to any challenges. The deserter could not be separated from his amazonian protector and lover, and so they left it to him to parse the inflammatory ruse of having her pose as a captured trophy of war - to be restrained whenever an enemy ship was approaching. Dressed in scavenged Larinthian uniforms, they would be able to pass any hostile traffic without raising suspicion, especially since they were coming from a scheduled operation. Even the serial numbers would check out. Thus, Fisk would have eyes ahead of his small flotilla. A radio was taken from one of the PT boats to the Landing ship so they could communicate.
There was an additional boon among the captured enemy equipment in the form of a Larinthian radio set - completely functional and intact. The other set had been unceremoniously destroyed when an amazon smashed its owner to the floor with it still strapped to his back, but it did yield spare batteries. This radio was keyed in to Larinthian traffic, and so Fisk had some inkling of what was afoot thanks to Arman's translations. He caught himself wondering about the reliability of the deserter, but reminded himself that whatever Arman had been, he was now hunted by Fisk's own enemies, and he seemed grateful for tasks that carried him away from the slaughter and devastation of his old new life.
They sailed on. The river twisted and turned and the jungle was an impenetrable wall either side, and sometimes overhead at narrower points or from marooned outcrops festooned with growth. They passed squat reptilian creatures lurking in the mudbanks in gangs, leaping fish that somersaulted and others that glided like bats, scooping insects out of the air as they travelled. Bulbous protrusions turned out to be bathing mammals of enormous stature, lumbering slowly about and watching the flotilla pass with only mild interest. There was commotion once as one of the amazons leaped from the high flank of their stolen landing craft in a perfect dive, and swam to the riverbank. Fisk had assumed she was leaving, but the others seemed to be cheering her on, and it was only when the mud writhed and reared up at her approach that he realised what was happening. The girl was raven haired and pale, and contrasted against the beast she was - apparently - swimming to confront. Whatever it was seemed truly hideous, slathered in wet mire and elongated but with four short limbs that were clawed. It had a short, powerful snout full of gnashing teeth and seemed to combine the agility of a cat with the articulation of a snake. It rose from the mud at the girl's approach and hissed, but as she swam directly for it, its reaction escalated. It darted into the river, serpentine jinking through the water toward her, and the splashes of her crawl stroke stopped as the combatants engaged.
It lunged forward and the amazon snatched its throat in one strong hand. Her compatriots on the lander cheered. The creature wrapped itself around the girl, draping over her arm, her neck, her torso, and Fisk could see its body pulsating and writhing as it began to squeeze. The girl clawed at the thing's coils with her free hand, finding the tail and starting from there, but the beast dug in with its clawed feet and scraped red gouges in her flank. She pulled the tail and feet completely away, holding head and tail at opposite ends as if tying a knot around herself and the noise of the cheering reached a crescendo. Her arms were knotted with muscular tension, shaking as she controlled the thing and Fisk wondered what on earth would possess anyone to jump into a body of water where these creatures dwelled.
Then she went under. The cheering subsided, and for a minute there was only tumult and the occasional flash of her fair skin in the dark water. The thing's head erupted from the water, her hand still clutched around its throat, and it gnashed its teeth. It could breathe, but she was still below. Then, slowly, shudderingly, the head was pulled below by the amazon's iron grip. The water went still.
Then the girl burst from below with a triumphant bellow, flicking her sodden hair out of her face and holding the creature limply by its neck where it hung, the coils sloughing off her. To Fisk's horror, she brought it back to the lander where the small crowd seemed to be delighted, then she swam back out again with a small net and rummaged in the mud where it had been minding its own business. She found what she was looking for and loaded the thing's eggs into her net to bring back.
"Dinner." Arman muttered cheerfully. The Larinthian deserter was shorter than Fisk by a few inches, standing maybe 5"7. His swarthy face was beginning to show the creases of age, though his shaggy hair and beard were pure black. He seemed healthy save for a few scrapes and nicks, and his mouth climbed at one side to give him a constantly amused expression that Fisk assumed was his natural one. It was a far cry from the defeated man he had met earlier.
The sailor blanched. "Rather you than me."
"It looks uglier than my old sergeant, but it tastes delicious. Slow roasted over an open fire, the meat falls away in long, thin strips. Enough to feed us all, and let your crew try some if they're feeling adventurous? With the eggs, we can make omelettes."
"Seems like a risky way to eat."
"Round here that's the equivalent of fast food. Not everything here is willing and able to kill you, but most of it is. Hunting like that keeps the girls sharp and gives us small victories to celebrate. Don't rain on it."
"When were you planning on cooking it?" Fisk inquired, feeling exactly like he was about to rain on the parade.
"When we stop of course. Even I know you don't want a fire on a boat." Arman met Fisk's eye in the silence that followed.
"We have a long way to go my friend. We won't be stopping for days, potentially. We won't get an open fire. Will it fry do you think? We can use the galley cookers. Maybe throw some of that Larinthian rice in with it, make a stir fry?"
"I'm sure that will work." Arman grinned. "It would be more enjoyable to stop, but...you are on a mission. You have a schedule to keep, I assume?"
"Always." Fisk admitted tersely. "I'm already behind."
"And we are grateful. We have nowhere and no-one else. We will fight for you, mister Fisk. You should consider naming one of our maidens, four of them survived."
"What?"
"Amazons are nameless until a scion - a man - gives them one. Theirs is a life of constant training, trial and testing until they are named. Once named, they serve their master for life, fighting to protect him and to enact his will in the village council."
"Why though? They don't need us to do their heavy lifting for them, do they?"
The Larinthian spread his hands and scoffed. "I once heard my Sergeant say they were a slave race. Since I named her Jacinta has done all I asked without complaint." He seemed to reflect wistfully on that before adding; "That is not true, when there is a complaint she is very stubborn, but that is very rare." He looked away thoughtfully before continuing. "They have a religion, a myth of creation. They believe they were created by some ancient scholar called Octavius, who was apparently a master alchemist. Their Goddess, Vitalia, apparently formed a bond with this fellow and when Lethys - whom the Larinthians worship, interestingly enough - spread his shadow over the land he tried to use Octavius to create slaves for himself. But Vitalia protected him, and the story has it that the two deities are locked in combat even now. During their struggle Octavius used the blood of Vitalia or some such to craft the Amazons to fight the followers of Lethys. So, they believe they were literally created to protect men like Vitalia protected Octavius, and they believe that it is only through the guidance of similar scions - who are waiting to receive the blessings of Vitalia in the form of the amazon they name - that they can prevail for their Goddess."
Fisk's lip curled in distaste. "That is an odd culture. Believing you were created to protect or oppose something, I can understand. Believing you were created to serve though? It sounds abusive to me. Are you sure you're not simply transferring your own cultural bias over theirs?"
Arman laughed. "From slave to master eh? I suppose it is quite a jump for me. I like to think I understand somewhat the difference between love and slavery."
"Love? Where does love come into it?"
"You will see. I hope you will see. The Sacred Bond can easily be abused, and I am sure that those slave-driving fucks are eagerly researching how that can be done. They will be torturing captives, running tests, dissecting the bodies. But I would never be without my Jacinta and I think that is true to the Bond, however it may seem to you."
"I have a wife and child back home."
"I had two," Arman declared proudly "before I was summoned. I was a haematologist in Perlitos before conscription. They have probably been taken now. My sons are probably old enough to be drafted by those bastards."
Fisk gave the Larinthian a sidelong glance. "How did you stay here, knowing that? How long has it been since you saw your family?"
"Eight years. I was drafted, trained, and posted to the 1363rd and then we came here. I remember the column I marched with. You couldn't see the end of it from the middle. Rows of tanks and trucks loaded with men. By the end of the first year I'd had my hands inside most of the survivors. They just threw us at the jungle and expected we would make it...habitable. The wildlife, the plantlife, even the terrain itself here is set against us. The smallest scratch from the wrong thorn can turn gangrenous or burn right the way through a hand. I've seen a mudpool swallow a tank, the stranded crew completely helpless as it slowly succumbed and the ropes we threw to rescue them were swallowed up too, as if the very ground were alive. A squad of men heaving on a rope with a poor soul on the end just to keep them from sinking. The mud won."
"But what about your family?"
"A draft is indefinite, and besides, life expectancy is two years in a normal theatre. Here? It is less. But I was safe. I worked in the rear echelon mostly, and I have watched bases rise over my time into sprawling complexes. There are tunnels underneath - I once heard that at the base near Boa's Bend they tunnelled into some kind of den of giant insects, and troops were sent there to flush it out. More and more were sent in, and then they simply sealed it off."
"...and your family?" Fisk didn't hide the irritation in his voice.
"Ah, my wives...they were both good Larinthian wives. They would have mourned my loss for just about as long as it took them to find others after dividing my estate. And my sons will have been raised to forget me like good Larinthian sons, and think only of their own futures in the brave and glorious Legions."
"So, you don't care at all?"
"Of course I did!" Arman snapped, then repeated it as if to reassure himself. "I did. But no more. I cannot go back. They will not remember me, they will call me a coward for returning, and that assumes I make it through this jungle and that army to get home. I think this is my life now. And thanks to you, I have it still. The things I have seen since I came here...they are terrible, and amazing. It is as if my old life were a lie I was telling myself in order to cope with subjugation. Here, I am free."
Fisk digested this information with unease. Something about the man seemed transparent, superficial. It wasn't that he was lying. It was as if the things he were talking about were being spoken of too casually. Arman seemed completely disconnected from the events of his life, even though his face showed the emotions of memory as he talked. Fisk pressed for more. "So how exactly did you get out?"
"I was called upon to stand in for a field medic due to some logistical mess. We were in the Bird's Foot base - the place where the river begins to delta off in three directions. I fled the Legion when the column I was with was ambushed by Amazons two years ago. I was tracked down and brought back to Ulani. It was Jacinta who captured me two days later. I had run and hid well, I knew the patrol routes and I knew where they feared to go. But I was a fool. I was caught in a snare trap and spent most of a day hanging upside down. I passed out. When I came too it was because Jacinta had found me and brought me back to the village. A Priestess, Leona, asked me why I should not be killed. I told them I was dead wherever I went so they should just do what they want with me. Before the day was out I watched twelve beauties fighting for the right to be named by me. My Jacinta won of course. Imagine that! I thought I was dreaming."
"So they just let you in? No questions asked?"
"I think they were convinced of my allegiances - that is to say, they knew I was done with the Legions. Or perhaps I was on probation, or they felt that they could control me through the council. There was something...although the trials of combat for me took place the day I arrived, I was taken to see the Princess, Hera. Blindfolded of course. No master gets to see the Princess. The guards left us and she spent a long time walking around me and then commanded me to speak."
"What, just speak?"
"Well, where would I start? I asked her if she wanted me to talk about myself. She said nothing. So I told her my name, my job, my drafting, my..." Arman shook his head and scoffed again in amusement "...I told her everything about myself. Why I left. That I was scared I would never leave. That I knew I had no future other than in the Legion. Maybe that is how they knew I would not betray them."
Fisk mulled this possibility before new questions arose. "So you must have known the Larinthians would come calling. You've followed them up the river from the south side, hopping from base to base?" He made a mental note to grill the deserter about these bases at another opportunity.
"Yes. I knew they planned to clear the river, that is the strategy they settled on after the first year since it was easier going. I tried to convince the village to move, but in the council there were about thirty of us. Only seven believed me. It was our amazons versus theirs, and although the fight was hard fought, we were not enough to prevail." At this admission Arman seemed genuinely remorseful. "It wasn't down to the amazons, not really. They just fight because the Priestesses say that's how it has to be. It was my job to convince the others. And I failed. Now you can fit the entire village in a dinky little boat like that." The pseudo-smirk on his face was gone again.
Fisk decided Arman was genuine, if oddly disconnected from his past life. Considering the events he supposed it was natural. "You'll have to tell me more about the way the village came to decisions, but not right now. Go and get that thing and cut it up and see if you can show us what the cooking is like here."
"Yes. I think that's a good idea. Let me see what I can do."
The boats slowed, but did not stop while the feast took place. Some of the men produced beer and spirits they had squirreled aboard, but Fisk snapped that they needed to stay alert and so the alcohol was reluctantly put away. The thing - which turned out to be called a Rake Eel - tasted as good as Arman had promised and went down well curried with rice and jungle fruits. The men were in a celebratory mood after their brilliant fight, and the refugees were eager to show their gratitude to the Myrmadons. Some of Fisk's men produced mouth-harps and whistles and struck up a tune, but again he had to step in and curtail the merriment for fear of losing focus.
Bruised, but not daunted, they amused themselves with card games and inevitably, flirting with the amazons. The male refugees weathered the advances on their respective companions politely, but the maidens Arman had spoken of - the women who had not been named - quickly became the highlight of the evening. Fisk had to return angrily when he heard drumming and music once again to find that they were dancing to the delight of his baying crews. After he had shouted down the music and called an end to the party, the slender blonde who saved his life rose from the back of the room, walked right up to him, and placed his captain's hat on his head with a kiss. The crew jeered and cackled, and Fisk went beet red.
It was but the first inkling that having the refugees along might prove to be problematic, though for now his men seemed to be in great spirits considering they were the farthest Allied unit behind enemy lines. There was a long running superstition about women at sea, as well as the myths about sirens and mermaids. Fisk realised there would be social problems compounding his command soon enough, but the presence of the refugees also reminded him that his mission was more than military now. He would have to learn how to incorporate or adapt to these people if there would ever be a working alliance between them. Night had fallen while the feast took place, and although they all needed rest, Fisk decided the going had been quiet enough to allow himself and the majority of others to get a little sleep while the first watch resumed.
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Great work.
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<I've gotten a bit carried away with this section so if it seems like talk of luscious amazon muscle babes has dropped off I promise there's some coming. This particular character has a bit more ground to cover than the others and some of the bits I point out here will matter greatly later on.>
He was woken by the engines cutting out. His mind was so accustomed to the noise and his body so used to their constant vibration, that for them to abruptly stop was a tangible event. When he headed out on deck it was still dark, and a heavy fog surrounded the boat. He could see why Kitchener had stopped. He could just make out the shape of the boat behind in the gloom.
"Anything to declare?" He asked as he stepped up to the bridge.
Kitchener turned anxiously. "Some air traffic. Helicopters. Visual only, we've switched off our radar. We probably register on theirs but they must assume we're friendly as nobody has been over to inspect us. Arman said the navy and the airforce don't talk much to each other."
"Any contact on the radio?"
"They've been asking for reports from the Gorbeh. Arman said that signal interference was very common here, so they might not assume the worst until much later. He said they'd probably wait until the ship had passed its due return date before starting to worry."
"Where is Arman?"
"Sleeping. I felt we had best stop, since we can barely see the bow in this fog." Kitchener pointed with his cigarette at the impenetrable miasma.
Fisk shook his head. "We're on the clock. We have to reconnoitre that base before they send something back down the river to find us. This is the best window we're going to get, and I'm not stopping because of the bloody weather. Ahead slow."
The first officer nodded and gave the command. The engine gurgled back into life, and the searchlight scanned ahead for any signs of the approaching river bank. The other boats followed suit, and he had to trust that they would all keep sight of the vessel in front. So they travelled at walking speed, and more than once Fisk had to wrench the wheel away to scrape against some unseen log afloat down the river, or a ridge of rock that threatened to hole the keel. It took two hours for the fog bank to clear, scoured away by the blazing dawn sun. When it did the river looked completely different - wider, wide enough that every boat in his little flotilla could sail abreast with space for more. The land too seemed to open up, the jungle respectfully waiting further out from the banks as they sailed through the middle of a valley. Ahead of them high, forested mountains rose and were criss-crossed with waterfalls all feeding this mighty deluge.
Fisk kept his speed constantly low and scanned the area with binoculars. There was a lot of traffic here. Great, flat barges worked in the flows, forming a supply chain from one side of the estuary to the other. The loaded ones were laden with stone, ore, crates and vehicles. Sections of metalwork and concrete. Further inspection indicated why - a bridge was under construction, massively ambitious, and wide enough to serve as a highway allowing lanes of traffic to pass. This was a Larinthian base alright, and a permanent wharf hosted three more corvettes like the Gorbeh and several smaller, faster boats. PT boats like his Pikes¸ armed tugs some of which were helping the barges from straying away. A strong-looking torpedo net lay across the estuary and seemed to serve as a failsafe to catch any barges that were overcome by the current.
Buildings encroached on the jungle which showed signs of fresh clearances and the sound of machinery, saws, and drilling echoed across the valley. There were fortifications here too - low bunkers on the shoreside like silent sentinels, and high watchtowers. He could even see a submarine, but what that was doing here or how it had arrived was anyone's guess. Construction craft were moored beyond the military vessels, their tool-arms poised like sleeping crabs. A dredger worked in the estuary and was the closest vessel, scraping the bottom out and loading the sloppy result onto barges that came and went like eager servants. Cranes moved on both sides of the river, around the wharf, loading and unloading and moving great segments of bridgework into place.
Arman, roused by the bright sunlight washing the boat, emerged blearily on the bridge. He wiped his face and took a deep breath of the cleaner, easier air in the estuary and took in the view, recognising the workings. "The Bird's Foot" he declared with disgust. "There was no bridge when I was there. "
Fisk was taken aback by the sight of industry taming this wild land, the magnitude of the Larinthian presence in so isolated a locale. The buildings and habitation climbed the foothills and hid behind copses of vegetation. A Zephyr transport came in to land, its four VTOL thrusters angled to cushion its fall to a pad, obscured behind a low rise. Two gunship escorts followed suit.
Kitchener broke the aghast silence. "We don't have the firepower..."
Fisk ignored him and returned to studying the vessels busy in the estuary. As he watched he saw the barges were for the most part unpowered, punted along by tired-looking amazon captives. Each was rigged with some sort of harness that looked like the kind of apperatus used in hospitals, or in athletic trials to measure pulses and respiration. Sturdy-looking metal frames with offshoots leading to a circular paddles laid symmetrically around the body. The harnesses all connected to an armoured powerpack on the victim's back with a small antennae rising from its top. At each bank of the estuary stood a watchtower, but these were poorly placed to deter water-borne assailants. Instead, Fisk realised, the bored-looking Trueblood's manning these outposts were scanning the barges for signs of disobedience. As he watched one of them noticed something on the barges; an amazon had collapsed and her barge was drifting errantly towards the torpedo net . When Fisk looked back at the tower the Larinthian noble had produced a hand-held device with an antennae on it and pressed something on it. There was no alarm or sound of any kind, but when he panned back to the amazon she was writhing around spasmodically for a few moments until she wearily forced herself to stand and, desperately, began to heave the barge away from the net with her long punting staff, which Fisk noted was as thick as a man's leg. The Larinthian in the watchtower was watching her get back to work, but when he took his viewfinder from his eyes he caught a glimpse of something else. When he put them back, he was looking directly at Fisk.
Fisk dropped his binoculars and seized the wheel, signalling for the other boats to follow suit. They were still over a kilometer away and if they made speed now they could hoodwink pursuers in the Malaise. The delta separated behind them into three prongs that ran off from the estuary, which then divided and criss-crossed into the Malaise they had travelled through. It was simple enough to head back the way they came, but Fisk felt exposed as might a stranger at a house party and accelerated. The captured radio came alive with challenges and Arman warned they had been noticed.
The first shot thumped out. Then, a screaming shell passed to send a plume of water high ahead of them. Looking back Fisk saw gunsmoke from one of the bunkers, and then noticed a corvette was leaving its mooring and some smaller boats were rushing out ahead of it.
"Split up!" Fisk ordered, signalling to both boats for emphasis. Accordingly the PT boats began to drift apart as they made for a different channel, and a brace of heavy shells struck water between them. The two Landing craft however were being left behind, and so Fisk circled around.
"What are you doing?!" Kitchener exclaimed.
"They're sitting ducks without us. What was the point in saving them from the Larinthians only to deliver them straight back again here? Guns, guns, guns!"
At his command the weapons on the PT boat opened fire. At this range they were largely ineffective, but the 45mm cannon and pintle-mounted machineguns forced the enemy small craft to divert course and evade, while the captured Trueblood weapons systems waited for closer targets. The initial attack wave disrupted, Fisk righted course for the Corvette. "Ready Torpedoes!"
Sensing disaster the Larinthians began to concentrate fire, and a hail of bullets hammered off the armoured shell of the boat, causing Fisk, Arman and Kitchener to duck and flinch while some of the crew were less fortunate. One poor soul struggling with the bow tubes was shot away by a corvette's 50mm shell, leaving his severed arms holding onto the attitude lever. The bunkers fired in tandem to send a gout of water rushing across the boat and leaving a wave that sent the boat skyward for a moment before it crashed back to the surface, engines roaring to the fullest. A slight adjustment, and the Corvette was still ahead, frantically turning to face him and narrow its profile.
"We've no attitude of attack!" One of his torpedomen screamed, but Fisk didn't care. The torpedoes didn't have to hit.
"Ready on my mark..."
The Corvette fired a hasty salvo of missiles that lanced up and outward like an opened fan. "Clear for flares!" Fisk roared, poising his thumb over the appropriate switch. The small boats were chasing him now and his gunners and theirs played a deadly, frantic game of chicken as their courses aligned and their speeds matched. The craft may as well have been stationary for all the adjustment that needed to be made, and only the unpredictable turmoil of their own progress through the stirring waters presented any ballistic variable. Sailors were smacked down by tearing bullets from all directions, and others cringingly took their place at each mounting. The deck was awash with blood as Fisk finally gave his order to the last able-bodied torpedoman who cowered behind the long explosives as if he were any safer there.
"Release!"
The man heaved on his lever and then rushed to the other to do the same. The torpedoes leaped forward and Fisk was already turning as the Corvette's small arms opened fire, presenting a veritable wall of fire that turned the water to grass-like blades around his boat and pattered off its iron skin in showering sparks. He was close enough to hear the General Quarters alarm on the larger ship as he thundered around and away, while the Corvette had to turn awkwardly aside to narrowly avoid the closest torpedo. Now Fisk thumbed his flare catch, and the dispensers at the back of the ship fired plumes of red projectiles that smoked and dazzled behind. The Corvette's missiles, on their downward home run, were waylaid and lanced in conflicting directions to crash and explode in the water behind. Beyond that wall of water, Fisk raced up behind the Landing Craft which were now heading down the rightmost toe of the "Bird's Foot".
Fisk realised now that there was silence on his boat save for a few snapping ricochets. His crew were mostly dead or wounded, and the pintle guns were silent. Kitchener was shot in the arm and clutched the wound miserably in one corner of the bridge. Arman was lying on the floor covering his head with his hands. Trenner, he hoped, was stowed safely below where the guts of the boat were still working hard for them. The smaller craft seemed to have lost their stomach for a fight as most had peeled off to lick their wounds, but one was following and its forward turret - a twin-linked machinegun - was battering away at his bridge. Frustrated at the difficulty of the slim target Fisk presented, the Larinthian gunner shifted fire onto the landing craft ahead - the slower of the two being full of their supplies and the refugees, many seriously wounded. The shots produced guttering sparks on the metal flank of the landing craft but Fisk could see pink mist where there were penetrations, and steered to put himself between the two.
The Larinthian craft was as fast as his own, and he made no headway. Instead he angled his vessel so that it would clip theirs if they refused to move. He was almost there when the enemy noticed and swerved urgently away, but this broke the gunner's line of fire and allowed Fisk to get alongside the Lander, which was foundering and starting to sink. An amazon, the black haired beauty who had wrestled with the rake eel earlier, clutched onto his boat as he slowed, holding the two together while others began to move the wounded and some of the heavy bushels of supplies.
"Arman! Kitchener! Get those people aboard now! Leave the loot!"
He could hear the enemy's machinegun starting up again and bullets cracked overhead and swept one of the amazons into the water with a gout of blood and a scream. Fisk rushed to the aft gun mount - a mirror image of the Larinthian's twin-linked automatic - and returned fire. The Larinthian was aiming at the soft targets, the people crossing from boat to boat, and Fisk was unimpeded drawing aim on their gunner and killed him, and he stitched a line of red-hot holes on one of their guns for good measure. The Larinthian turned away and he could see a crewman scrambling across the bow to take the gun for a new run while others foundered with hand held small arms that fired wide and wild.
The boat was suddenly crowded again as the amazons and their injured menfolk struggled aboard. The fallen amazon in the water was being hauled over the side as Fisk rushed back to the wheel and slapped the throttle forward. "Kitchener, get on the aft mount! Arman, keep everyone's heads down!"
"I'm trying, but Carlita's going berserk!"
Fisk risked a half-second glance back to where Arman was pulling on the arm of an incensed Amazon, with one foot on the aft boards, already wounded and screaming angrily in foreign tongues at the turning small craft. The bunkers fired again and this time the lander scraping starboard aft went up like so many splinters, blasting everyone to their feet. Fisk was throw onto the wheel and the boat spun in a tight circle until he groggily recovered, by which time their pursuer had caught up to them. He could hear Kitchener cursing as someone, presumably the same amazon, started up again and the whole mess continued even while the Larinthian boat started to aim low for his engines. Desperately, Fisk turned sharply to cross his path, forcing either a collision or a break of his line of fire. Instead they both got something unexpected.
His boat turned perpendicular to the enemy, but as their bow nudged the stern of his own craft, the amazon straining to get at the enemy leaped from the Myrmadon boat to the Larinthian. Fisk only noticed as he turned the tables on the enemy to come at them from behind, and saw that they were too scared to manoeuvre. They were in arms on their deck or diving overboard as the amazon smashed through them with horrific strength, immense blows punching through bodies or knocking men flying off into the water. She laid into the boat itself, bringing her hands down in rupturous strikes, seizing welded plates and wrenching them loose. As she snarled triumphantly Fisk recognised her as the girl who snagged the Rake Eel the day before, and saw the same terrible beauty he had seen in his quiet blonde guardian. Then the boat mounted the embankment, and exploded in the jungle.
There was a moment's shocked silence, broken only by the quiet moans of his wounded passengers or a few sobbing gasps. Then the Corvette fired another rush of missiles skyward. Fisk gunned the engines and noted the faltering, unhealthy tone they made now as he committed to the right-hand fork and the second Lander ahead. His boat was smoking from singed perforations and the smell of diesel oil was everywhere. If he could just make the next boat, the precious cargo could be transferred and he could use the damaged boat to decoy any further pursuers. "Trenner! Engines!"
He heard a muffled "...on it, cap!" from below and smiled that she was safe. "Try now!"
With a spluttering roar the boat surged back to life and gained on the Lander. Fisk glanced behind and saw that the missiles were ready to begin their final approach, and so he ordered the deck clear. "Everyone forward, now!" They were no longer under small arms fire so there was as much safety in standing on the prow as there would be anywhere else. The amazons hemmed in the menfolk, including Kitchener and Arman, preventing them from being knocked overboard by the shuddering motion of the bow. The Lander, sensing his intention, had slowed to help him catch up.
Fisk fired his flares. Nothing happened. He looked back in horror to see the missiles hurtling toward him and screamed at the top of his lungs; "JUMP!" He waved forward with his arms as if pushing them off his prow from afar. The amazons seemed to take only a moments hesitation to realise what needed doing and dragged their human net into the water while Fisk wrenched the wheel away from the Lander and spun the boat toward the missiles. "Trenner! Get out!"
Trenner poked her head out from the engine compartment, saw the missiles coming for them, and ducked back inside."Just a second!"
She did something to the engines as his rev counter redlined and the boat leaped forward. As she made to disembark the first missile plunged into the water just shy of the stern and exploded, lifting the boat up and forward. Fisk and Trenner were thrown out of the boat screaming. As he plummeted toward the water the other missiles caught up to the airborne boat, deafening detonations tearing and scorching.
Time slowed as shock numbed his senses. He knew he was falling, he knew he was injured, he knew he had to take a deep breath for the water that was closing toward him. It was only as he neared the surface that he saw her as a reflection. No, just underneath, on the other side of that mirror. The pale girl with shining gold hair splaying out eerily, arms reaching toward him. Her eyes wide, watching his. Her mouth open to receive him as he closed in faster, and faster.
He knew he was about to hit the water, but he never felt the impact.
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Fantastic continuation. Great work. I am eagerly looking forward to the rest.
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Take your time, this is an excellent story, well developed and quite the interesting read. Each chapter is visually stunning........KARMA x 100
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Great work, excellent pacing, dramatic scenes.
Don't rush, take your time, go at your own pace. You're writing a classic here. :bravo:
K++
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I agree with the people above. Take your time to write this incredible story.
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Wow!!! Great story. Keep up the great work.
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Thanks for your support chaps. I'll drop some more in later today.
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He was woken by a kiss forcing air into his lungs. Then he retched water. Pushing himself free of his blurry saviour he took a moment to expel all of the fluid that was spluttering up from his windpipe. He collapsed back into an arm and a leg that propped him upright. They belonged to the blonde girl haunting his fate, proving once again that he was being spared for something significant. He stared up at her lovely face, watching the concern melt away to elated relief.
"He's alive!" Casey Trenner - bloody from a scratch on her head and her overalls tattered by shrapnel and burns - exclaimed excitedly.
Fisk was too dazed to resist when the amazon scooped him up in her arms, still dripping wet. They were walking up a spill of mud where the risen banks had collapsed, forming a short ramp into the water. The jungle crowded round eagerly as Trenner walked alongside, chattering.
"I thought you were a goner for sure, Cap. This little stowaway saved both our asses. She picked us both out of the water and swam like a freaking mermaid to the bank. Just legs. When I came around she had one arm round my waist and another round yours, swimming backwards. I don't think she speaks Myrmad as when we made it to shore she carried us both and I was telling her to put me down because I could walk. The rest you know - she gave you the old mouth-to-mouth and hey presto! Captain Fisk rides again! Never thought I'd be jealous of an unconscious person."
Fisk found it hard to concentrate on talking. "What...about the others?"
"I think they all made it out, Cap, thanks to you."
"...boat's only as good as her crew." Fisk murmured grimly. At this, Casey fell quiet. It was great to be alive, but they had shared B31 with twenty others who were no longer with them, and Fisk felt exhaustion, agony, and emotional loss all at once as events caught up to him and his mind began playing back the sight of familiar faces snatched away in puffs of pink mist, or lying with frozen expressions while bloody water sloshed about them.
Neither had any idea where their golden-haired guardian was walking. Behind them the estuary was hurriedly covered up by fronds of leaves and hanging boughs and branches. The amazon sometimes held him aloft as she barged through webs of thorny vines that scratched and scraped her hard, pale body. Trenner followed in her wake until their path was blocked by a wide patch of liquid mud that gurgled ominously. Without a word the amazon held Fisk to her body with one arm - he wrapped his legs around her waist in a bid to make life easier - and beckoned to Casey with the other. Bemused Trenner approached, but when the amazon bent her knees and motioned for the engineer to get on her back, she balked. "Wait, what? That doesn't seem like a - whoa!"
Impatient to be moving on, the amazon simply grabbed one of Trenner's legs and held it next to her hip while the engineer got the idea and latched on with all four limbs. Now holding their combined weight with no apparent unease the amazon searched the branches above them while the two clinging sailors jostled for comfort where their limbs collided around their guardian's waist and shoulders. Snapping a low branch off, the blonde used this to hook and drag down two vines, which she tangled around each arm. Taking a moment to ensure that Fisk was not nodding off, with a nuzzle and a kiss, she tested the vines by picking her feet up and letting them - and her arms - hold the combined weight of three people. Satisfied that her arrangements would hold, she backed up as far as the vines would allow and then proceeded to swing across the mudpool. She landed heavily but with the grace of a cat, and did not wait for Trenner to disembark before continuing on her path. To the relief of both she cupped her hands beneath their overlaying pairs of legs.
She walked for a few miles. Fisk was becoming more alert and ever more aware of the agony across his body from the stresses and buffeting it had sustained during their battle. Trenner too was complaining about back pain, cuts and bruises. They busied themselves discussing what would come next. They had to link up with the other boats and gather their forces, but the problem was they had no way of knowing where the others had run too or even if they had stuck around to be found. Fisk believed that Kitchener would try to lead the boats out of the Malaise and go home, but Trenner insisted he would confirm Fisk was really gone before doing so and that the crew wouldn't leave without their commander. There were also the refugees to consider. They didn't seem to want to leave either, although Fisk had no idea why anyone would stay in the face of these odds. All the while their bearer said nothing, smiling kindly when spoken to but never responding. Both were convinced she could not understand them. She resisted their attempts to stop her and dismount, blithely carrying on with a snort of laughter or a playful, stubborn noise. They were following the river, never quite out of earshot. Her path seemed to vindicate itself by turning first into a dirt track, trodden void of flora by wildlife and people, and then to moss-covered paving, old and disused.
Eventually, as the sun was setting, she brought them to a clearing. Trenner, who was facing forward, drew Fisk's attention to old, wrought stone - pillars and steps, reclaimed by greenery and revolted against by eruptions of grasses, roots of trees, and blooms of wild flowers. The place had an arena feel to it, a lowered epicentre oval in shape, with climbing stone tiers leading up to what was once a ring of columns. Most were now toppled and crumbling, but a few stumps stood testament to the grandeur and at the landward-head of the oval was a statue, broken and destroyed. Only a pair of marbled feet, bleeding moss where they were severed at the ankles, remained. Their guide seemed to linger in the epicentre for a few moments, turning about as if looking for someone, or perhaps simply remembering. Then she headed waterward, and there were faded stone steps leading down to the riverbank. Here she finally permitted her wards to dismount, and both the engineer and the commander peered up and down the river hoping to find one of their boats, but to no avail.
The amazon picked three white flowers and wove their stalks together to make a tiny wreath, which she placed on top of a wooden post - which Fisk had assumed was a dead sapling, but on closer inspection found it had been put here and was holed for tying rope to. A mooring post, presumably. He realised then that their guide had brought them to a familiar place - at least, to herself and, he smiled as he thought of it, the boat full of her companions from the village. Now she left a signal visible from the river - that someone was here. Three flowers, three people. He laughed out loud when he realised her silent plan, and she looked at him nervously. He turned and hugged her, then planted a kiss on her cheek.
"Captain, you'll freak her out!" Trenner warned. The blonde simply touched her cheek gently as if expecting to feel something there. Fisk nearly capered in delight as he began to trust something in himself. A sensation of foreshadowing. Ancient peoples might have called it good omens. He had a certainty that not only had his boats survived, but that they would assuredly find them thanks to the quiet genius of his - apparently fatebound - guardian. He stopped short of jumping up and down as his aching body brought him back to horrid reality, but he felt a sense of security that was combining with the relief of having survived despite all odds.
"We'll make camp here," he declared as if they had any other options "there has to be something to eat around here. Are you hungry?"
"I'm starving cap'." Trenner complained.
"Not you, you're always hungry!" Fisk snapped, resting a hand on the amazon's shoulder.
He mimed eating and she watched him in bemused silence just long enough for the engineer to laugh at them both. Then she nodded, and headed straight into the river where she crouched, and waited for fish. Trenner set about gathering forage, having no idea what was edible or not and hoping their guide would be able to tell. Fisk set about gathering firewood and kindling, and built a makeshift grill bar that the amazon soon populated with a large fish. She took a look at what Trenner was doing and threw out most of what she had found, so the engineer focussed on finding more of what was left and eventually produced a decent portion to supplement their main course. The amazon returned again with two small fish, then took a stick that Fisk had whittled using a pocket tool that Trenner had triumphantly produced. She was gone for some time, and just as the two sailors were asking each other whether they should start looking, she returned carrying a brace of lean-looking hares on her stick. She skinned the animals barehanded and laid the pelts out to dry by the fire, then proceeded to bone then as Trenner and Fisk paused to watch in morbid fascination. When night fell they had a small but warm fire and were eating fish, game, and berries. Trenner had also secreted a hipflask in one of her overall's pockets, and this time Fisk had no inhibitions whatsoever about their state of readiness. If Larinthians came now, all they could do was run, and running into this jungle at night was as sure a fate as surrendering.
So they drank. It was not good liquor, but it washed down their scavenged repast and made them giggle. They made the amazon try it. She recoiled from the burning spirits, but after an initial shock took another, longer gulp. Before long they were resting upon each other, or at least Trenner and Fisk were resting their heads on the amazons crossed outstretched legs while she leaned against one of the stone columns near their dying fire. She played with Fisk's hair, and he was now jolly enough from the drink not to care.
"When's the last time you saw your wife, Cap'?" Trenner asked abruptly.
The commander sighed. "Nearly a year now. After the battle of Merroy all leave was cancelled. I've been running small boats this whole time. I think it's a punishment detail."
"Hey, wouldn't have met me otherwise! Were you on a proper ship then?"
"Yes. The Unreconstructed ."
"What happened?"
"She got deconstructed at the battle of Merroy. Hence, they don't trust me with a proper ship anymore."
"No, I mean, what actually happened."
"We were in the patrol flotilla that found the Eastern Fleet."
"Really? How bad was it?"
"Terrible. We lost three ships in as many minutes. Destroyers versus a line of battlecruisers. The Ubiquitous was cut right in half by one of those shells, I saw it with my own eyes. The opening salvo nearly flattened us, I was about the only bridge officer still standing. I hid behind the wheel counter - that went. Lost power but the engines were good. We'd already transmitted our contact report, so I had to fuck or walk. I tried to fuck."
"What did you do?"
Fisk sighed as he remembered. "Like what we just did, but on a bigger scale. Two hundred souls aboard. Ran straight at them and fired everything we'd got. I was sailing a pylon by the end of it, the poor thing had so many holes in her. I don't think any of our missiles hit, there was so much going on I lost track of whose was where. After the first barrage I told them to load ECM interceptors and fire as they bear. Left them to it. Wouldn't have lasted five minutes without them. We were taking fire from every ship at one point - can you imagine? The whole eastern fleet pointing its guns at us. And they still couldn't hit a barn door. Not that you'd know from looking at us. Guns were knocked out. One was blown clean off the hull with the gunners still inside."
"So...how did it end?"
"We fired all four torpedos at the Snakehead, and all four hit. Fat bastard listed forty degrees. By then I didn't need phones, I could just shout through the hole in the floor to adjust course. The engines were about the only thing still working properly so I made to ram."
"No way!"
"Yeah, as it happens, there was no way. Ship lost with all hands."
"So how did you get out?"
Fisk rolled over so the other side of his face was resting on the amazon's warm thigh. "I played dead. Water was sopping round my feet by the time I bailed. There was an upside down life raft so I got stayed near and hid on the other side of it. At one point the Larinthian ships turned toward me so I had to get undeneath it. I was so scared I thought I was going to suffocate, I stayed in there so long. But eventually I ducked out and when I did the Larinthian fleet had gone. Our Home Fleet had sallied to give battle and, I am told, destroyed nine out of thirteen capital ships including the Snakehead. In exchange? Five destroyers and two cruisers, and a couple of battleships in for repair. Not a bad innings for Admiral Kellew's first outing. Smashed the Eastern Fleet, saved the motherland."
There was a pause while Trenner digested his story. Then; "So, about your wife..."
"What about her?"
"I just..its hard to remember people have families back home. You share a boat with people, you just kind of assume you're all the family you're going to have. I always found it hard to picture you as a family man, Cap'."
"She's a tailor in Lithgow. One of the best. She received a Royal Commission to make the Princess' Bridesmaids dresses. Most stressful eight weeks of my life."
"Your life?!"
"Aye, mine alright. Every decision was wrong, every word out of my mouth was like pouring fat on a fire. She's normally very accommodating, but that summer was awful. She probably wouldn't take kindly to me using this one as a pillow, mind, but I'm too drunk and too tired to care."
"And too comfy," Trenner suggested, nuzzling the amazon's flank "you're comfy, did you know that?" In response the Amazon rested a hand on the engineer's tousled head and proceeded to massage her scalp. Fisk noticed that the bandages he had put on the blonde's injured hands were gone, and although there was a visible scar it was little more than a scratch now. After a few moments of indulgent silence, Trenner spoke again. "We need to find out her name."
"Names are a big deal for amazons. Arman was saying its a major cultural thing. Akin to a marriage almost."
"What?"
"Yeah. Apparently no amazon has a name until some guy gives her one."
"Well, who's the guy?"
Fisk raised a hand vaguely. "Any guy, apparently ."
Trenner considered this quietly for a moment. "Unfair."
Fisk laughed at her declaration. "How about you Casey? Anyone at home?"
"Nah. Girlfriends come and go, but no one sticks around while I'm on patrol. Girl's are pussies before they turn 30 and realise what commitment is."
"How old are you again?" Fisk teased.
"Twenty nine. Fuck off." This made the commander bawl out laughing, so much so that Trenner then laughed at him. "But seriously," she continued with amusement "there's no one I care about back home. I wonder what happens if I name an amazon?"
"Don't. Arman said it's a lifelong commitment. You're allergic to commitment, remember?"
"Yeah but...those muscles though..." She paused to run a finger down the amazon's bicep. "She seems to be soft on you Cap'. What with the hat, and the mouth-to-mouth, and I saw you bandaging her hands." For a minute Fisk felt a pang of cold dread as he wondered if Trenner had meant his close encounter in the mess/surgery after the battle, but she went on. "Admit it, you're tempted by the natives."
"I'm married with a kid, Casey."
"She doesn't seem to mind. And you don't seem to tell her that you mind."
Fisk opened his mouth to respond but no words came, and that caused him some panic. He sighed tiredly to conceal his doubt with irritation, but Trenner pressed home.
"Siren's a good name. You should call her that."
"Do it yourself!" Fisk snapped, and no more words were exchanged for a time. Eventually Fisk's mood got the better of him and he spoke again. "Do you think I was right to do what I did today?"
Trenner had evidently almost achieved sleep, for her answer was groggy. "We're alive aren't we?"
"I know we're alive, but...the crew aren't. Twenty lads. Did they deserve it?"
"Arman and Kitchener got out, I saw them on the Lander."
"That's not what I asked."
The engineer sighed and considered her answer. "I think if you hadn't done what you did, then the people on the lander would have been captured or killed. If the other boats had turned to do anything about it they'd have died for nothing. I think you did the best you could do and for what its worth, while they probably wouldn't have volunteered, the lads that died signed up to do as they're ordered. They didn't jump overboard or turn the boat around, so...maybe they wanted a fight and that's what you gave them. I think if I'd died during that one I wouldn't have held it against you. And I think the people on the Lander had better appreciate it when we catch up to them."
"If we catch up to them..." Fisk grumbled, and realised the booze was taking away his earlier sense of certain positivity. Trenner did not speak again and eventually started to snore quietly, so Fisk took it upon himself to try and maintain a watch. He was awake when a helicopter scoured the river with a searchlight, and nearly roused everyone to move, but refrained when he saw that it was sticking to the waterway and hadn't spared a second glance at the old arena. Eventually he too succumbed to slumber.
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Great work. Looking forward for more.
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He was woken by the amazon shifting from beneath. Although she had carefully tried to lay both bodies to rest, the movement was such that Fisk shook awake and instantly regretted the sensation of his body screaming at him. It felt for all the world as though every muscle was stiff and sore. His many cuts and scuffs homogenised into a single pain that made contact with any surface difficult. He found himself arising groggily and forced to his feet. Trenner slept on.
The amazon had gone down to the riverbank where she watched the water passing by forlornly. No boats had moored overnight. She was looking upriver toward the estuary like a hitchhiker waiting for the next prospect of a ride. It was then that Fisk realised she wasn't waiting, but watching. She heard his approach and beckoned for him to join her, but when he did so there was nothing to see. The river bent away and there were some miles between this point and the estuary where their battle had taken place before. Their comrades' boats would be well past here by now, but still the girl watched the river bend intently.
Then he heard it. Engines!
It was a Larinthian patrol boat. Even as he turned to shoo the girl away from the river she was picking him up to do the same. She ignored his protests and rushed back to where Trenner was still snoozing, pausing to scoop a long arm around the engineer's waist and pick her up like a tigress with a cub. Trenner mumbled something sleepily, but didn't fully rouse. Then the amazon retreated into the jungle where they waited, and listened. The boat trundled past, but Fisk felt his heart dropping as he realised there were now enemies between him and the surviving boats. He assumed the Larinthians were doing the same on the other "toes" of the Bird's Foot. He swore under his breath, and his blonde guardian ran her hand across his chest soothingly, sensing his agitation. When the boat was out of earshot, she returned them to the arena. By now Trenner was finally awake.
"What now, Cap?"
"Doesn't look good. The Larinthians are searching for survivors. I'd hoped to make a big enough noise that they only focussed on the one boat, but I shouldn't have let that last boat get away after it hit the lander. Damn it!" He kicked a piece of rubble that skittered across the arena floor. Despite his best efforts to conserve his force they were now separated, aimless, and at that rate easy pickings for the Larinthians who could simply funnel ships down the Malaise until they were found. The sacrifice of his twenty crewmen to save the rest had been in vain, the same vanity that had brought him to this suicidal detail in the first place. Kitchener would have been right to leave, and at that moment, Fisk found himself hoping that his second in command had done just that.
Then there was an explosion. It wasn't nearby, but it was distinct enough to be only that. A rattle of gunfire. Then silence. Fisk grinned. "Let's go!" He ordered, setting off downriver toward the noise and leaving the others behind. Trenner yelped as the amazon picked her up and followed.
The explosion had not been far after all, but due to the nature of the jungle and the winding river the sound was cushioned. Barely an hour after they set off they could smell burning fuel and see the reflection of flames on the water. He could also hear voices, and recognised some Myrmad words. Fisk's pace increased to a run as he became more and more certain. At the next bend the remains of the Larinthian patrol boat smoked, half-sunken, and on the inside of the bend hidden until he was virtually aboard, was one of his flotilla. He sank to his knees and gasped with relief. It was Lieutenant Porter's boat, now under the command of a Petty Officer named Lord.
"Don't shoot!" Fisk shouted from above, and the men aboard flinched and raised their weapons. Lord waved them down and took his hat off.
"Is that you Mister Fisk?"
"The very same! Permission to come aboard?"
Lord spread a hand invitingly across the deck."It's your boat, Commander."
Fisk leaped from the overhanging bank onto the deck and sprawled clumsily, too excited to care. "What are you doing hanging around here?"
"Our prop is buggered sir. Tangled with all kinds of vines and reeds and whatnot. The engine doesn't sound at all healthy. We've been trying to clear it since yesterday but Maxfield reckons we've blown the pistons."
"We'll see about that!" Trenner shouted from above, and the blonde amazon leaped to the deck with the chief engineer on her back just as softly as if she had stepped aboard. Trenner dismounted and busied herself aft, talking mechanics with the other engineer.
Lord continued. "Wasn't much else to do. The other lander was behind us so we decided to heave to and ambush the first Larinthians that came by, give the slower craft a good lead on any pursuers. See how long we can hold out, or else disembark and make a break for it on foot. Now that you're here though, I was rather hoping you'd got other plans?"
"Plans indeed Mister Lord! Does your radio work?"
"It does, sir."
"Can you use it to get an exact position of the other boat?"
" The other boat is roughly parallel with us on the farther outlet, but...they've run into the same issue as us. They're stranded too. I don't think the Lander has a radio. It's amazing to think we made it up here in the fog without any issues - maybe at slower speeds the tangling wasn't an issue, or perhaps we just got lucky with our route coming up."
Fisk thought quickly. In order to consolidate his force he had to have them all in one place. They couldn't very well sail back to the estuary, especially not without engines. Only two thin slivers of land stood between them, but the Larinthians were closing in. Meanwhile, Kitchener would be taking the Lander and its refugees as far away as possible, and was uncontactable via radio. "Do you have a flare gun?"
Lord nodded, and beckoned one of his crew by the bridge cabinet. "Machin, bring mister Fisk the flare gun, there's a good lad."
Fisk selected a red and a blue flare from the equipment offered, and immediately fired them downriver, one after another. Red meant "I need assistance". Blue meant "The Coast is Clear".
The petty officer watched the flares slowly descending "What are your intentions, Commander?"
"Regroup. I leave part of this plan up to you Lord. You can either punt your way downriver and close the distance between yourselves and the Lander, which I hope has seen these flares and will be returning. Or, you can stay in ambush here. I need your ship's engineer and mine to work on restoring propulsion by any means necessary. I'm going after the other boat."
"But how will you get it to us?"
"Overland, if need be. It's not far. "
"Overland?!" Lord exclaimed incredulously, but Fisk was already leaving. He availed himself of a repeater rifle and a bandolier of ammunition, a heavy hank of towing wire, and some more flares. As he was making to leave however the stern of the boat rose suddenly and the crew staggered. As they adjusted to the cant the stern slapped back into the water just as abruptly. Lord raised a hand to his head to keep his cap from falling but Fisk didn't fall so elegantly. "What the blazes?"
"Prop's definitely fucked Cap!" Trenner shouted, still hanging over the back of the craft. "We're not untangling that anytime soon." As the engineer righted herself and perched on the back board their statuesque companion erupted from the water and pressed herself up on the board. Fisk was treated to the sight of her glistening body, water forming rivulets across generous undulations, her breasts crushed together between her powerful arms as she suspended herself half out of the water. She shook her hair which extruded in a momentary lightshow where the gouts of freed water caught the suns rays. When she opened her eyes they were looking right at him, and he felt for all the world as though he was a deer in the sights of a master hunter. Then she was rolling her body on her shoulders' pivot, swinging her long legs straight up into a handstand that made the crew gasp in admiration. The manoeuvre smoothly transitioned to a flip that placed her on the deck, still dripping but by far the most calm and collected person on the boat. Trenner looked from Fisk to the amazon with a wry grin. "Quit showing off. Our guest kindly helped me make an inspection of the propellers, and I can categorically confirm that they are fucked, Commander Fisk."
Fisk jolted back to presence at the mention of his name. "Time to repair?" He asked, still on the floor.
"Marginal, but the pistons do need replacing. We might have spares on the two remaining boats to fix one of them up to working order, but not both."
The amazon padded across the deck and offered him a hand, which he accepted and was hauled to his feet. "I want you to stay here and start working on the engine. I'll bring the next boat across."
"How are you going to do that?"
The Commander straightened as the amazon handed him his cap and he replaced it on his head. "I think our friend here might be able to help. Now, Ensign Trenner, how did you communicate your needs to our guest?"
Trenner raised her eyebrows. "Why mime, giggling and touch, sir!"
"Understood." Fisk's hand was still holding the amazons, and he used it to lead her to the nearest point of the overhanging riverbank. He pointed up at it and looked at her. She followed his direction and simply rested a foot on the side of the boat. Fisk caught himself studying her long, toned leg and when he looked at her again she jerked her chin at her knee. A little daunted at presenting such a spectacle to his subordinates, Fisk placed a boot on her knee and used it as a step up to where he could place on hand on her shoulder for support and use the other to grab a fistful of grassy tuft from the bank. He was making to haul himself up when the girl simply put one hand under his butt and very nearly launched him up and onto the bank, making the crew laugh. She followed quickly behind with a powerful leap that let her grab onto an exposed root and swing her legs up to join him.
Fisk peered down on his grinning crew. "We'll be back shortly." He hoped he was right, as time was of the absolute essence.
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Great work.
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Fisk walked for a short while downriver, searching for a place where the high banks flattened out, but instead found a high point where a collapsed tree bridged the river and he was able to use this to cross. The amazon insisted on holding his hand while he slipped across the broad trunk. She took the lead through the tangled branches and reeds that were swamped between the next river course and the last. It was raised above the river by eight feet, and the tightly packed trees formed a rampart twenty feet taller on top. Fisk wondered how the hell they would be getting the recovered boat past this and decided the only thing to do would be to travel until a passable opportunity presented itself. Meanwhile the amazon stopped him to indicate a sheer drop into the next river. Long, scaly creatures lurked in the mire below. She led him instead along a thin, treacherous sliver of grassy overhang. Though she probably weighed as much if not more than him, her footfalls were very careful. Fisk by comparison felt like a blundering oaf as his boots pushed through the fragile footing, causing her to reach back with an arm and pin him against the tangled woods that thankfully provided a lot of handholds.
They reached a point where their path, such as it was, tapered away to nothing, presenting them with a six foot gap with only slick, sheer clay surface for purchase below their feet. Here the amazon held out her hand, which Fisk took and felt her close her fingers around his wrist in a firm grip. Then she pulled him away from the safety of the trees and into the drop, using the momentum of his fall to swing him up and toward the ledge over the gap. He didn't realise what was happening at first and so held on to her hand, dangling helplessly instead of using her assistance to cross. Instead of any expression of difficulty or discomfort, this caused her to laugh and do it again. The second time he realised what she intended and latched on to a tree on the opposite side, shuffling further along to make room for her to cross, which she did with a deft leap.
Fisk had waited to steady her landing but instead she calmly stepped into his waiting arms, pressed her body against his and fixed him with her big, blue eyes and a playful smile that parted to seek a kiss. He panicked, not knowing where to put his arms, and then his footing slipped and he fell and then they were holding each other. Trapped, she kissed him tenderly, lifting him up to her lips while he held onto her arms, her shoulder, and finally draped his arms around her neck as he surrendered to her will. When she finished she looked at him as if to gauge his reaction with a raised eyebrow and a coquettish grin. He looked back at her helplessly, unable and unwilling to process the conflicting emotions but comprehending he had never known such desire. For a moment he touched her face, tracing the soft curve of her cheek, causing her to sigh appreciatively and loom in for more with eyes closed. He stopped her with a finger on her lips, causing her to open one eye in surprise. "We have to go." The officer breathed, for his own sake as much as hers.
He tore, gently and reluctantly, free from her fading grasp and led her onwards to where the ground began to slope out. They were able to use leaning trees on the muddy bank to step down into the next river. The trees, black and sweating, continued in thinning ranks well into the water and they were wading chest high when they finally stepped out from beneath the canopy and out into the river proper. The depth stepped off here and Fisk found himself abruptly swimming, but also caught in a powerful current. In a few short strokes he was carried meters away until he felt a powerful arm around his waist, pushing him toward the other side. The girl had to kick in the face of the current to keep station, so Fisk endeavoured to shove them across using his legs. Eventually they made it to an upturned root structure on the other side.
There were patches of solid footing above water here - protrusions of spongy grasses matted into a moss-like lawn, silt and detritus piling behind fallen trees and dipping branches into solid piles. It was wider than he thought, or perhaps the rivers were wider than they seemed. He realised this when they finally found real land that climbed out of the water. This low ridge was little more than a speedbump that tapered off into the swamp and quickly gave way to it on the other side as well. Fisk decided to climb the low height the ridge offered in a bid to find the second boat, but the jungle was implacable.
Then there was gunfire. The initial shock of it caught him off-guard and he flinched, as did his amazon companion who hugged him close protectively. They listened to the sound of a one-sided gunfight and headed towards it, Fisk nodding with satisfaction as he heard the familiar bark of a 45mm gun ending the battle. A few sporadic bursts of automatic fire died away until he was sure they were level with the boat's position. The amazon led on again, this time practically sliding down through a sopping quagmire of mud, toppling trees and exposed roots. The water here was barely liquid and she sank up to her waist in the mess with a disgusted squeal. Fisk realised the danger too late as he skittered down on her heels to come to an abrupt, viscous halt. They still could not see the boat through the waterlogged trees, but there was a bend up river a few meters and he could hear voices so knew they were close.
There was shooting behind them now from the first boat, muffled by the labyrinthine nature of the malaise. Fisk forced himself through the stinking mud which was thinning as they trudged further and further into the water. The amazon broke free of it with a splash and beckoned for him to follow her path, avoiding a long outlet of mud in favour of using the longer, but easier-going water. Free from the dank canopy once more the water here was slow and easy to swim, and Fisk had never enjoyed the sensation of dubious river wash scouring thick mud from his person before. They rounded the bend and there was the second boat, wedged between some rocks that squeezed the river into a narrow gulley. The bow was up out of the water, which is how its 45mm gun was able to fire backwards over the rest of the ship down the stretch to the next bend, where one Larinthian boat was half-sunken and burning, and the other had run into the back of the Pike patrol ship, carried by the current. The crew of B-33 were partially dismounted, some using the rocks as a vantage to keep lookout for further pursuers. Others were straining hopelessly against the boat, trying to lever it off the rocks, but they were against the current and the boat weighed close to forty tonnes. The rest were manning the guns and he could see Lieutenant White using the radio on the bridge.
Fisk found footing and stood in the water to hail the crew. White looked up from his conversation in stunned recognition. "We thought you were dead sir!"
"Not yet comrades, not yet!" Fisk yelled triumphantly, splashing back into the water to swim up to the boat proper. The end of the wire spool was already in his hand as he clawed onto the rocks, latching its heavy-duty fastening onto the boats bow-most mooring ring.
"Tow cable," White breathed with relief as he came up to help the commander aboard "but how did you get the other boat working?"
"I haven't brought the other boat. But I have brought her." Fisk jerked his head over the side to where the scantily-clad blonde was pulling herself up onto the rocks. White's relief wrestled with bemusement for control of his face, but both succumbed to silent admiration as he watched the girl watching the struggling men trying to move the boat.
"What's your situation, Johnny?" Fisk brought the man back to the present.
"We're stuck sir. The river became thick with reeds and we lost propulsion. We drifted on into this bloody mess. The water is very shallow here and I'm afraid we just took the wrong branch of the river. We've been here since last night. The Larinthians have only started to send anything down river today though - first contact at dawn, second just now. Why has it taken them so long?"
"I have no idea, John, but their lost time is our gain. Me and..." Fisk found himself shamefully unable to name the amazon who had saved his life twice and followed him without hesitation to their rescue "...her...are going to get you out of here." Fisk glanced over the side to where the girl, seeing the struggling men, had made her way over to see if she could help. There was a scraping metal whine and a jolt as the boat began to slide back off the rock. "You're not holed at the waterline are you?"
"No sir," White blurted through his disbelief "no other damage. Hargreaves says we've blown the engine though. Something to do with the blockage of the propeller."
"It's the same story with the other boat." Fisk paused as the boat wrenched again and slapped into the water. There was a moment of uncertain motion as it drifted onto the next obstacle with a metal thud. "I'm trying to get this boat back to them. Time is of the essence."
"With respect sir, is that even possible? There are two strips of land between us and them. We may be only a few hundred meters apart on a map but it could be miles before we get a junction to change course, and without power..." White had to stop as the boat shifted again, this time with a grunt of effort from the amazon and an applauding cheer from the men.
"It'll take as long as it takes," Fisk explained "our main worry now that we're here is keeping the Larry's off our tail. The other boat has the same problem so the sooner we can link up, the sooner we can move on."
A shout of warning from the lookout warned of an approaching enemy vessel and both officers looked to see small launches, smaller than their patrol boats even but packed with soldiers. Their only defence was firepower and they hammered the boat with small arms fire, driving the crew into cover. An RPG whooshed overhead and another slammed into the rocky river wall beside the boat, blasting the lookout off his perch and onto the hard, unforgiving deck of the patrol boat. The rear twin-gun mount opened fire and Fisk saw the lead boat disintegrate into splinters and pink mist as the high calibre shells tore it apart. The second launch fired a smoke bomb that blinded the gunner, who blazed away desperately but with a defiant roar and a series of further detonations, the launch glided into the back of the disabled Larinthian boat at their stern, shielding the occupants from the gunner while more smoke clouded up to envelop the wreck. The Larinthians dismounted and Fisk's crew armed themselves with whatever was at hand and faced the smoke warily.
"How's it going?" Fisk shouted over the side. An exhausted, sweating bosun's mate wiped his brow and peered up at him.
"We're properly wedged on this last rock sir. Even Miss Muscles here can't budge her. The pressure from the back is killing us."
"There are Larinthians trying a boarding action. Bring the girl to the rear and we'll clear those wrecks."
Fisk unslung his repeater and headed for the stern where his men were waiting for the Larinthians. But so far none had come. He mounted the back board where it was in contact with the enemy wreck and stepped across, nodding at his men to follow. The Larinthian boat was smaller and sleeker, with a thin armoured wheelhouse - little more than a risen protrusion in the centre of the boat, slope-sided. A Larinthian helmet rose from that wheelhouse and Fisk fired, then there was screaming and gunshots all around. A conscript sergeant led a handful of men straight at Fisk with a cutlass drawn, and he had to crouch behind one of the gun mountings as hip-fired bullets howled and whined off in search of him. He rose, fired, dropped an enemy, then the sergeant was on him with a sweeping downward strike that he blocked with his repeater like a quarterstaff. One of his sailors tackled the man to the floor and Fisk had to throw his rifle like a boomerang to disrupt an enemy beyond who was preparing the shoot. Then Fisk was throwing himself at the enemy, wrestling him for his gun. The man was small but he didn't seem to have skipped any days at the gym as he wrenched the Myrmadon round and onto his back against the sloping wheelhouse wall. More of Fisk's sailors were coming on now and the fight had degenerated into a mass brawl of baying, desperate fighters all stabbing, punching and throttling in the smog. Determined not to need saving again, Fisk brought a knee up into his adversary's groin and then landed a square punch that knocked him back and over the low gun mountings on the bow. The man scrabbled to bring his gun up and Fisk dived aside, landing in the path of an oncoming enemy and grabbing hold of his legs to trip him.
They had fallen beside the Larinthian sergeant who was bleeding from one knife wound and was losing the battle to avoid another aimed at his eye-socket in a gruelling grapple. Fisk and the newly fallen conscript rose together but the enemy had his back to Fisk who seized him around the neck with one arm and punched repeatedly with the other. He saw the man draped over the gun mounting aiming his rifle and used his grappled adversary as a shield, but the shooter shifted aim and killed the Myrmadon sailor on top of their sergeant, who coughed a bloody sigh of relief as his desperate struggle ended. Fisk tried to push his captive forward, but was resisted, and instead the man seized the commander's restraining arm with both of his and began to break free. Fisk let the man concentrate on his arm and readied a punch with the other that was timed perfectly so that, just as the man freed himself and triumphantly turned to face him, the first thing he saw was a fist in the eye that rocked him back. Fisk followed with a strike to the stomach and then barged an elbow into the man's face and pushed with his whole body, shoving him back and over onto the shooter who couldn't get out of the way thanks to being stuck in the turret depression. As Fisk searched for a weapon one of his sailors came up with a shotgun and killed both men, stacked as they were on one another. The Larinthian sergeant had just picked himself up off the floor only to find the shotgun pointed at him. He was blown over the side by the blast.
The short-lived attack was defeated and the Larinthians - ten of them - were dead. But there was still a lot of smoke choking the gulley and Fisk needed his fighters to move the wrecks out so they could free their own boat. These orders given, he dropped into the water and helped his men and the amazon push the larinthian patrol boat back at the stern to free it from the rocks, then back at the bow to get it off their own boat. Finally they wedged it as a barrier by turning it and, with a mighty shove, the amazon managed to embed the prow in the muddy bank where the water current trapped its stern against the other side. With no obstruction behind, the tired labourers had to rush back to the boat to push it backwards off its final obstruction, and then try to help it pass the obstacle by applying what force they could to its onward journey in the hope it could be forced past. Fisk produced the wire he had latched to the bow and dragged it astern, handing it to the amazon where she would be able to first pull, and then push the boat from this position. As he took his place on the wire there was a shout of "More coming!" and the crack of repeater rifles.
"All together now!" Fisk ordered, and his dozen or so crew and one amazon heaved on the wire or pushed on the bow. The boat ponderously slid off the last rock and, heavy against the current, was dragged back inch by inch. The men at the front lost all purchase as they fell into the water at the boats withdrawal, so they cleared the way while those at the back hauled against the current. Fisk heaved as hard as he could, feeling the unyielding wire bite into his hands, and wondered exactly how much his contribution accounted for here. The other men, exhausted and straining with their teeth gritted and eyes closed, betrayed his blonde guardian's silent feat.
She hauled on the wire from the back of the pack, anchoring it with a stance that might have resisted a charge of horses. Her pale body was slick with water and rippling muscle twitched and bulged - in her back, her shoulders, her arms, her legs. Each step she took seemed to force the others to do so, using the awkward leverage of the slippery rocks to back the boat up. There was a hollow thud as a mortar fired and Fisk, alarmed at this change in tactics, ordered everyone to get ready to push. Everyone, except the amazon, who didn't comprehend and kept hold of the boat alone. As the crew braced to push Fisk waved her forward and gave the command, and she dutifully dropped the wire and threw herself at the back of the boat which now, with crew, amazon and current shoving it forward, rode up, off the side of, and past the final rock.
The mortar shell landed just behind where they had been hauling the boat back, scattering water and shrapnel whistling overhead and flattening the exhausted labourers onto the rocks or washing them helplessly after the boat downriver. All except the amazon, who pressed through the plume of water and shrugged off a biting shard of shrapnel in her bid to catch the errant craft. As the boat drifted away she caught the trailing wire and braced to halt it, a feat that nearly dragged her off into the water where she would never gain purchase, but on her tip-toes she brought the boat to a stop even as the river's pace quickened. The crew picking themselves up or recovering from being half-washed away watched with astonishment as the amazon closed her eyes and moaned at the strain of holding the boat alone against the river's current. Some had latched on to the boat to stop their own drift after the mortar strike, and now looked at each other incredulously as the slender but powerful blonde held firm amidst another blast that showered over her. The mortar thumped again.
Fisk had gone back for his defenders, shouting for them to follow. They warned him a tank was coming and at first he assumed they were mistaken, but as he cleared the smoke he saw the turret riding a crest of wake. It's machinegun reached for him and he had to throw himself aside as it scoured the gulley, felling two of his crewmen who were holding back the infantry following in its wake. He ordered everyone back into the clearing smoke and round the bend, just as another mortar shell landed where he had taken cover moments before. The tank fired and the blast knocked him into the water where he was dragged a ways before recovering, his rifle committed to the bed. He could see his blonde companion tethering the boat for his crew who wearily made their way toward it. Some were aboard already and trained the guns upriver in expectation of pursuit.
The Larinthian tank rounded the bend and fired its main gun, too eagerly for the shell screamed overhead. Fisk's gunners returned fire, their heavy calibre automatics pattering off the tank and forcing its commander to button up.
"Get aboard now!" He roared, "No malingering!". The last few swimmers caught up to the boat, and he patted the amazon on the back. "You too." She opened her eyes with relief and grabbed him round the waist, letting the boat drag them by the cable. His startled noise was snatched away as the weight of the boat carried them both down river behind it.
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This is a great piece of work. A thoroughly enjoyable story extremely well written. K++!
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Another great chapter, you are adept at your craft as your characters are at captivating us.............K+
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Thank you both very kindly!
I must admit this current segment has dragged on longer than the others (almost double length) and I have been worried all the talk of boats would get tiresome, but if you're still enjoying it, great. I've finished this segment now (there are maybe 2 posts worth). I have one final character to introduce in a completely different set of circumstances. Then I'm on to binding all the threads together.
Stay tuned! :)
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When she finally dragged him up onto the boat with her, they joined the rest of the crew in being utterly exhausted. With one exception and two wounded, the entire crew had survived. Lieutenant White was steering the boat as it coasted on the current. Fisk took the precious calm to regain his breath and kiss the hand of the amazon who had enabled their rescue.
"Three cheers for Mister Fisk's lady!" someone shouted, and before Fisk could find the speaker his protests were drowned out in the chorus of voices raised in thanks. The amazon seemed bemused but understood from everyone looking at her that this was some expression aimed at her, and smiled awkwardly at the men who came to pat her on the shoulder. Someone offered her a hipflask, which she drank from and regretted again, someone else offered her a cigarette, which Fisk took.
"They're bad for you," he muttered, lighting it.
"Well that's got the boat moving again," White shouted over his shoulder at the throng "the question now is where are we moving it to, Commander?"
Fisk took a long, indulgent breath of smoke and exhaled it in a pall before rising and crossing to join the officer on the bridge. "Look for flats, preferably with no trees. Be ready to anchor at a moment's notice." White gave the order and the crew snapped tiredly to work. For a minute they both watched the river banks dubiously, which continued to stay raised and foreboding with waterlogged trees. There was a battle going on over those trees somewhere. The way it was going on, Fisk wondered if Lord had been forced to move from his position, as this was a pitched exchange, not the sudden blaze of an ambush from the blind of a bend. Cutting above the noise he could hear a helicopter, and then its distinctive whoosh of rockets. A line of tracers reached into the air way beyond the tree canopy and the helicopter flew closer to Fisk's boat.
"Ready guns!" he snapped, and the men trained their weapons skyward. They needed no order to fire as the helicopter came into view, shockingly low, and they battered its underside but to disappointingly little effect. The helicopter zoomed out of view and Fisk knew it would now be readying to attack him.
"Load the 45' for Flak!" He ordered, wondering why they hadn't done so already. It was easier to track an aircraft with an automatic, but the bigger gun had the surest chance of taking it out. The Larinthian gunships were formidable adversaries to his boats, natural predators almost. Against their naval counterparts, the Pikes were better armed and armoured, but the Larinthian Vulture was heavily armed and armoured for its weight class and could outmanoeuvre a boat any day of the week despite its relatively slow airspeed. The river gave him zero opportunity to move, but at the moment the high 'walls' of the jungle meant that the enemy's angle of attack limited him either to a fast, inaccurate strafe, or a vulnerable run down the length of the river where all of Fisk's guns could be brought to bear. The commander and his men waited tensely, hearing the throb of the helicopter's blades fade into the subliminal. It seemed to be nowhere at all, and that meant it could strike from anywhere.
"Maybe he's damaged and gone home for repairs?" One of the gunners aired.
Fisk didn't need to answer as a petty officer beat him to it. "Don't you believe it. He's scoping the lay of the river to find a good spot to jump us. Keep 'em peeled Barnes!"
That opportunity presented itself abruptly. A gentle bend in the river turned them away from the thick jungle layers and out into a reed-infested mess. It was mostly water here, but it was treacherously concealed by tall grass and reedbeds so that whatever land and protrusions existed would never be known until the boat hit them. The view opened up so that now they lay in a vague basin, the courses of the river behind them, swamp ahead and to their left, and on the right a low flat descending into the swamps - the next river, Fisk realised with a jolt of excitement.
"Incoming, Two-Four-Five!" The sailors turned to their rear-left according to the given compass bearing and saw the Vulture screaming toward them low, low enough to bend the tree canopy under its blades. It's cannon sawed angrily and Fisk's order to open fire was drowned out as the first shells began to hit. The Pike was armoured but only up to a point, and these 30mm shells were capable of destroying heavy tanks and emplacements with armour-piercing incendiary ammunition. The noise was terrible. Where small arms fire would produce whining ricochets which were nerve-racking, this weapon was firing so quickly that the hollow perforations became a drumroll of doom, sawing a jagged gash in the boat that threatened to carve it in half. Lieutenant White screamed as a bullet seperated his leg at the shin, but his voice was consumed also as the helicopter scored its deadly line across the boat. The amazon, still at the stern, curled up with her hands over her ears.
Fisk's gunners returned fire desperately. Twin-linked machineguns and squad support weapons tried to nail the cockpit, which fractured under the deluge. The 45mm barked angrily, producing a black puff of flak ahead and to the right of the helicopter, shaking it off its aim. Disrupted, the helicopter banked away as the gun fired once more.
"Medic to the bridge! Damage report!" Fisk called above the dazed, deafened silence that followed.
A sailor was able to reply from below through the awful carved line in the bridge's floor. "Most of that crap was stopped by the internal walls, but there are some through penetrations. We're taking on water, sir!"
"Fires?"
"Nothing we can't handle. Some rounds went through the crew compartment and lit stored laundry, we've got an extinguisher on it now."
"Make safe the boat." Fisk stalked to the bow and began dragging in the wire. They had to get underway. They would never be able to escape the helicopter unpowered, but every minute they wasted here was a minute the other boat was under attack as well. The helicopter banked around in the distance and the gunners chanced it, the 45mm getting another two shots off before it turned and levelled at them for another run. This time rockets accompanied the bullets and Fisk was transfixed at the sight of the gunship hanging in the air like a predatory wasp, the proboscis of its cannon ablaze, streaks of flame and smoke spitting from its rocket pods alongside. To have made it this far and be killed with such ease!
Then a remarkable thing happened. The gunners were blazing back at the helicopter and in the wild exchange of fire, there were so many pieces of metal flying that it was perhaps inevitable that some of them might collide. Whether it was the 45mm pounding gouts of splinters out into the space between, or the furious volleys of the machineguns trying to find a weak point, something detonated one of the rockets in mid-air. This blast knocked others off course momentarily before they too exploded, creating a chain reaction that chased all the way back to the Vulture which rocked and wobbled, its gun firing wildly so that stitches of impacts on the water arced around. The crew cheered as the helicopter seemed to stagger off course, smoking from several perforations. Then the 45mm finally scored a direct hit, waiting for a moment of stillness, and the helicopter seemed to bend in the middle and drop from the sky in a smoking ruin. The crew left their seats to celebrate, throwing their hats and embracing one another. Fisk looked up at the continent of clouds in the blue ocean above him and took a deliberate, relished breath.
He fished up the wire and traced it's length back alongside the boat until he was at the stern, where his amazon companion was hugging her knees miserably. One of his men reported that the hull was now watertight once more and he congratulated them on a job well done.
"Siren," he said as he crouched before her "I need your help again." He took her hands in his and ignored the aft gunners gawping at him. She let him raise her to standing and seemed to take a breath. Her eyes calmed from scared to anxious as she watched him attentively. He pulled in the end of the wire with its clip and held it up. "I need you to take this, out over there, and find something to hook it onto." He articulated his words by craning his finger like a hook and attaching it to his arm. She seemed to understand with a nod and took the wire off him, then broke into a running dive off the bow of the boat which was met by some whoops and cheers from the men. Fisk ordered a party over the side to nudge the boat around, which they could do by swimming against it using their legs.
As the boat was turning one of the gunners reported Larinthians emerging from the river behind them. Sure enough the amphibious tank, followed by two swimming APCs emerged. There was a moment of silence as the tank didn't seem to notice them at first, then its gun fired, again too eagerly as the shell whined overhead again, and the vehicle stopped immediately. Fisk found himself imagining the gunner and driver arguing, but ordered his gunners to track the APCs as he knew they wouldn't be able to damage the tank. They needed the 45mm again to knock this brute out, but it was currently blocked by the bridge. The boat was swinging slowly to starboard as his crew desperately paddled it round. Siren was making good headway across the swamp with the wire clipped to her ankle. The tank fired again and Fisk flinched, expecting the worst, but the shot landed short and sent a plume of water showering across him and the deck. The APCs were moving either side of the tank, one cutting left to get in their path, the other moving right to fall astern.
The 45mm was finally able to come to bear and fired at the tank. Unfortunately it was loaded with flak which pattered harmlessly off, but it did engulf the enemy in a puff of oily black smoke for a moment. Fisk ordered his machineguns to fire on the APCs and the encouraging noise of returning fire seemed to alleviate the desperation of waiting for the tank to kill them. The tank moved forward out of the cloud, but again it fired before stopping, sending its shell laughably short to fountain up a wash of water and reed blades. The 45mm fired and this time it scored a direct hit, but remarkably it seemed to bounce in a shower of sparks off the turret. Men had popped up through the roofs of the APCs to open fire with pintle-mounted machineguns and bullets were whipping across the deck, prompting Fisk to seek cover behind the bridge. His crew in the water were pulling themselves aboard only to flatten themselves on the deck amidst the dangerous deluge. Siren had reached what appeared to be an island with a massive fallen trunk the size of a cargo trailer, and was waving to signal that the line was ready. The tank noticed her and sent a burst of machinegun fire across, causing her to duck behind the trunk as rounds tore up splinters.
"You men, get to the bow and pull up the wire. Start pulling us forward!"
"You want us to go out there like sitting ducks?"
"How else do we get out of here? Come on!"
He led the six sailors to the bow as the machineguns exchanged fire. The 45mm barked again and this time the impact made a gratifying hollow sound and no sparks were seen. It landed toward the rear of the tank however, which was silent for a moment before the turret adjusted and fired once more. This shot hit the boat low, very low. Fisk had been expecting an explosion, but instead there was a horrendous noise like a brick in a washing machine followed by rushing water. Someone inside screamed. There was another call of water below and hammering as his crew tried to stop the flooding.
Picking up the wire Fisk pulled it in so that two others could join him in hauling on it. They braced their feet against the hull lip and hatch covers so that they were almost prone on the deck, and strained. The boat did not move. They heaved until they were red in the face and the blood was thumping in their heads, and finally the boat inched forward. After a few agonising pulls they could add another pair of hands, then another. As the boats gunners suppressed or killed off those on the APCs, Fisks team of labourers found a rhythm and the boat crawled forwards. The 45mm fired again, this time hitting the tank square in the middle of its side, again penetrating. The tank fired again immediately, the shell striking the sloped armour of the bridge with a splintering ring and a deluge of metal shards that cartwheeled in all directions, maiming several of the crew. One of his haulers dropped with a leg injury, while both of the machineguns fell silent as they adjusted to move wounded men out or treat them.
In the silence that followed the APCs produced new gunners, daring the quiet. White, from the floor of the bridge, bellowed for the guns to open fire again, but the enemy had too choice a target and too good an opportunity. They fired at the exposed labourers hauling on the bow, with devastating effect. Fisk was struck in the calf and went down, and his men fell around and on top of him in bloody ruin. Only the other wounded man, prone on the deck, survived. Belatedly Fisk's machinegunners returned fire, silencing the APCs. The boat stopped much quicker than it started.
The tank at least did not fire again. Nor did it move. It stood like a monument in the swamp, its gun pointed at the patrol boat, its hull perforated by two fist-sized holes. The APC to their rear was gaining on them, and the one ahead trying to cut them off was heading directly for the amazon's marooned tree trunk. Both deployed smoke simultaneously, masking their further movements and thwarting the 45mm gun's attempt to line a shot up. Fisk and his wounded sailor were dragged into cover behind the bridge and treated, with some searing haemostatic powder and hasty bandaging. The boat was beginning to list but the two men who had been plugging the holes assured him the boat was now watertight, but that a considerable amount had made it into the hull. Wounded men seemed to be everywhere, and Fisk ordered them taken below to clear the decks, slapping away one man who tried to help him off. Lieutenant White, missing a leg, also insisted on staying, though he was now weak from blood loss. As he searched for the enemy APCs Fisk heard the wire creaking and noticed it was under tension. They were moving!
Following the wire to its other end Fisk saw his amazon companion heaving away, singlehandedly dragging them through the water. She had worked herself into an intense rhythm, legs braced against the heavy log, every muscle on her lithe body working to pull on the wire. As Fisk watched her, propped against the bridge, he felt sure he had known all along she was the key to their salvation. While he marvelled though, the enemy moved. Emerging from the cloud of smoke almost on top of the hardworking amazon came the APC, engines revving as it climbed the sliver of land, driving straight at her.
"Gun forward!" Fisk bellowed, hobbling toward the 45mm. The APCs hatches opened and infantry began to disembark while the boat's turret swivelled to take aim. Siren glanced at the oncoming enemy and kept hauling, and Fisk felt as though she was looking straight at him while she hauled away. The gun barked and the shot struck the APC hard, rocking its suspension and piercing straight through the driving compartment. It kept advancing. The infantry opened fire, sending two RPGs at the boat, both of which struck the 45mm turret just as Fisk got within arms reach of a gunner's shoulder. One moment it was right there, the next it was gone. The blasts shook the boat. Luckily the commander had been knocked flat, as a gout of flame blossomed from the explosion to dissipate above. Of the gunners, nothing was left. Fortunately nothing had breached the deck, and the magazine seemed to be intact.
Deaf, singed, but miraculously unharmed by shrapnel, Fisk could only wince through the heat and stinging smoke to where Siren had abandoned the wire and now laid into the Larinthian conscripts, using the moving APC for cover. One moment she was pushing a sergeant back into two of his troops, the next she was vaulting over the roof of it to fall on three terrified men who were systematically punched unconscious, kicked flying across the water and smashed into the unyielding flank of the vehicle, leaving a bloody spatter. The APC rolled up the trunk and could not climb it, grinding against its bark and digging into the muddy floor. Finally it stalled and fell silent. Siren, having defended herself, began to pull on the wire again.
At the back of the boat the machinegunners had been trading fire with the pursuing APC which had cleared its smoke screen and was now within grenade range. Thankfully the gunners did a sterling job of killing or suppressing anyone who tried to raise their head to shoot or throw anything, and the APC peeled away, the resident infantry no longer combat capable or perhaps deciding to call it a day after what became of its counterpart.
Fisk's hearing did not return during the lull that followed. The horizon smoked where the helicopter had crashed. The crewless vehicles stood like statues marking the battleground. Fisks crew were down now to less than half their number, with six casualties dead before the medics could reach them. He staggered to the bridge and found that Lieutenant White had passed out. He called for someone to help and eventually one of the medics came, checked the man's pulse, and shook his head. Fisk ordered the man to get on the radio, but the sailor just winced at him and whatever words he replied with carried no sound. Fisk repeated himself and pointed at the radio but the sailor called for the petty officer, who also couldn't make out Fisk's shouted slurring. He did however surmise that if the commander was pointing at the radio, then there were only so many people he could mean to contact. When he finished conversing with the radio set, he returned to Fisk and spoke very slowly and clearly so he could lip read. "Other boat - on the run - heavy contact - five dead."
The man looked past Fisk and pointed to where Siren had hauled them to her little island, or at least alongside the immense trunk that jutted out into the water. Fisk crossed to the bow, stumbling as he did so, and he realised his balance was off. He walked like a drunkard, using the side rail for guidance. When he finally made it to thank the amazon, her body was dripping with sweat, amplifying the stunning definition of her muscles, but she was breathing hard. She threw down the wire and nursed her sore hands, rinsing them in the water. At Fisk's side petty officer Moore was clapping and when he looked around to see if anyone else was the remainder of the crew were also applauding. He joined them but was stopped after a few moments by Moore's hand on his arm, and he saw with embarrassment the applauding had stopped without him noticing. He cursed the Larinthians for the loss of his hearing.
Fisk watched the exhausted amazon catching her breath beside the stricken APC. An idea occurred to him then, and he grabbed the petty officer and pointed excitedly at the vehicle, then the boat beneath them. With a slow nod of comprehension, the man barked orders and two sailors clambered over the side with pistols to inspect the wreck. They checked the passenger compartment and found a live Larinthian cowering inside, who was ushered aboard at gunpoint and taken prisoner. Then they lifted out the dead body of the driver, almost hewn in two by a 45mm shell. Reluctantly, one of the men got in and after some tense waiting, the thing shook to life and tried to climb the tree trunk again before stalling out. Eventually they got it working and reversed it into the water, brought back towards the boat, and hitched the wire to it. The amazon climbed tiredly aboard, and Fisk pointed to indicate that he wanted the boat underway. The APC began to gurgle forwards and the wire tensed. Then the boat crawled forward again.
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<Last nautical tangent for now here, moving on to the last character I want to introduce next.>
The going was not fast, but it was quicker than Siren's impressive, singlehanded pace. Using the APC as a tug the boat cleared the swamp and entered the second river channel, again heading downriver. This channel was considerably more shallow and at times the APC dragged the boat painfully across rocks and through cloying foliage. Thankfully however the land was low here and before long they found a curious and sudden patch of the bank that was devoid of trees - or at least, looked like it had been recently cleared. The APC picked its way through the stumps but stopped when the boat was just touching the bank. The driver poked his head out to shout something but the petty officer had to translate for Fisk again by talking slowly and clearly.
"Not wide enough - stumps may damage boat - friendly air wreck ahead."
The commander beckoned for the non-commissioned officer to follow and clambered over the side to see the situation for himself. Sure enough, the jagged stumps here were created by the crashing of a Lexian fighter, which had evidently bounced off the water and careened into this patch at ground altitude. Its wingless, glassless, blackened wreck was stacked against a boulder jutting out into the next - and final - water course, and the trees around it were scorched clear from the fire or explosion that evidently ensued from the crash. There was a charred mess remaining in the cockpit and nobody gave it much inspection. The crew had questions, Fisk could see them asking the petty officer who shrugged. Nobody asked him, and that was fine for now as he had no intention of confiding the other, harder part of their supposed mission - a mission that, seeing this wreck, he was prepared to write off as a complete waste of time. Hargreaves, this boats engineer, hopped off to inspect the wreckage while the rest of the crew set about clearing some of the stumps in the way, which they did using 45mm shells dug underneath them and wiring them with detcord. Fisk kept watching the river behind them, and before them, knowing the Larinthians would not be far behind and wondering where on earth their other boat was. Had they only just set off from their round-the-bend ambush, or had they been coasting the whole time his boat was stuck in the swamp?
The wounded who were conscious manned the guns. Siren had eaten a pair of MREs ravenously, but with unimpressed expression. Fisk eyed the route the boat would take, gauging the width and indicating missed stumps that might pose a problem accordingly. With the gun no longer operable, the shells were dead weight. Whatever was left could be passed on to the other boat. The work was fast all things considered, and he thanked the skies again for their fortuitous approval.
The last few stumps were detonated, and the men stayed off the boat in case they needed to deal with anything as the APC dragged it ashore. The vehicle revved into life and the boat lurched forward, sticking momentarily on the bank while the driver adjusted his revs to accommodate the enormous strain of dragging it up hill. It stalled a few times until the crew gathered to push the boat from behind, and even then they made exhaustive, one-push-at-a-time progress until Siren joined them. Finally the boat got underway, crawling at a snails pace even though the APC 's exhausts chuntered furiously. Fisk joined his crew in trying to push but quickly found his calf injury made him almost a hindrance. Nevertheless he found space to lean against the hull and tried to grimace through the pain. The ground was thick with moss and grass, waterlogged in places with eased the friction of dragging the hull across land. They were only a few dozen meters from joining courses with the other boat now, and Fisk dared to feel triumph as the APC crossed the apex of this thin slip of land and began the minute descent toward the last river.
Perhaps no one heard it over the noise of their own straining or the engine of the towing vehicle. Fisk certainly heard nothing, and there were no reactionary cues from his crew. In fact the first he knew of any danger at all was being fallen upon by Siren. While he blundered on the floor with her trying to determine what the hell she was playing at, a shadow passed overhead, low and fast. He felt, rather than heard, the throbbing of its rotor blades. Another helicopter. He felt a blast and saw pieces of smoking metal scattering out ahead of the boat. Fighting his way free of Siren's protection somehow, he rose to see the APC had been blown apart by rocket strikes, little more than axles and broken tracks now. His crew had scattered for cover and though the wounded gunners returned fire valiantly, their shooting was wild and thin. The boat was utterly stranded, and the enemy circled like a leisurely buzzard for the killing run. Fisk rounded on Siren, who had picked herself up and taken one of his hands, and pointed up to the deck of the boat. The look on his face must have conveyed enough, as she obediently knelt to offer him a shoulder to stand on and, as he did so, stood to boost him onto the deck in one fluid movement.
The main gun was long gone but the twin machinegun mounts were blazing away and Fisk practically fell across one in his bid to take over. The crewman attending, injured in the shoulder, busied himself with readying a fresh box of ammunition as the commander took aim. The vulture was already firing, its horrendous buzzsaw of bullets tearing through the earth toward them at breathtaking speed. Fisk aimed high for the rotors. The sailor alongside tried to correct his aim but Fisk ignored him. He knew from their previous encounter that the canopy and chassis were proofed against their small arms. The rotors were the only weak link...
It all happened at once. The sawing line of fire found the boat and to deaf Fisk, the result was a visual maelstrom of burning metal splinters and blinding sparks, the very air vibrating with impacts. At some point Fisk had closed his eyes, and when he opened them, the helicopter was smashed in the air, smoking from a dozen perforations, and careening out of the sky toward him. The vulture ploughed into the ground, bulldozing a thick ramp of mossy earth, slowing blades striking gouts of it up before bending and shattering under the inertia. His men were cheering, and he turned to see what they were looking at.
It was the Lander. True to purpose it turned for their embankment and lowered its ramp, where the amazons rushed forth toward the stranded boat while Arman, Kitchener and the skeleton Myrmad crew disposed of four smoking rpg launchers over the side and waved at their comrades. The amazons gathered excitedly around Siren and they conversed energetically until the latter seemed to press them into service pushing the boat, which Fisk laughed at. Even with ten amazons, some of them taller or broader than Siren, the going was agonisingly slow. The crew of his boat slowly emerged from their hiding places in astonishment as the scrum of women heaved and barged the forty tonne chassis down the bank toward the water. Moore snapped at the men, who hurried aboard the boat to relieve the wounded gunners and, Fisk noted, see to any perforations below the waterline.
Just as hopes were restored, the boat shook and reverberated again, this time with a heavy, single strike. Fisk saw his crew pointing upriver to where another of the Larinthians' amphibious tanks had parked itself, wreathed in gunsmoke. Men threw themselves flat as machineguns strafed the deck but there were now fortunately few targets to choose from. Moore loaded smoke canisters into the flare dispensers and fired them, providing a degree of cover, but only from the small arms. The main gun struck again, unable to miss such a sitting duck, and the Myrmadons felt its impact as the cymbals on a tambourine. Fisk peered across the ship as if expecting to survey the damage, but he knew the vessel was holed below the waterline. The main gun, their primary defence, was gone. The torpedo tubes were still intact, the bridge superstructure was chewed by the helicopters but not levelled by heavy ordnance and the twin-machinegun mountings that were useless against armoured targets were now the second-best cover on deck. The commander grimaced and flinched as bullets spat around him, trying to think of a way to turn the tables. His eyes rested on the torpedoes.
To take the option that occurred to him, he had to get below. He used the bridge wall to guide himself amidships, stumbled through the gangway passage, falling down the stairs and into the path of a crewman who tripped over him. Ignoring the chaos he created, Fisk blundered on forward. A tank shell exploded ahead of him, knocking him to the floor once again. In eerie silence one of his crewmen dragged himself out of the flames, horribly burned and with legs missing. The sight was mercifully clouded over by an extinguisher, and the officer pushed himself on. Finding the forward magazine, now a shambles after all the shaking, rattling and blasting that had taken place, he rummaged for a torpedo contact fuse. Finding what he came for, he dragged himself out and bounced from wall to wall as the boat lurched over some lump in the ground. He took the stairs on all fours, emerging on deck and noticing, amid all the carnage, after only a few minutes below deck, how good the air in this place smelled.
He slithered to the stern and hauled himself up by the rail. Looking over at the amazons straining against the boat's mass, picking Siren out of the groaning, undulating bodies. He shouted. He thought he shouted. He hammered on the railing. Finally he threw his hat at her. Distracted, she picked up the hat and looked up at where it had come from to see him frantically beckoning her up to the deck. Her response made it seem as if she had just started the day, running up the backs of her comrades - who didn't so much as bat an eyelid - and somersaulting to land before him, cap offered casually with a nervous smile. Fisk found himself checking whether this was his only option. Did he really have to rely on her again after all she had done?
A shell screamed overhead, twitching the smoke, close enough for him to feel the heat of its passing on his face before Siren tackled him to the floor again. "You have to stop that!" he thought he said, but she cocked her head at him in confusion. He pointed toward the bow and began to scrabble forwards, but she picked him up unceremoniously and ran for them both. Using his wild gesticulations she made it to the port torpedo tube where Fisk directed her to take the torpedo out of its tube, something he would never have considered before seeing her incredible strength in action. To his astonishment and terror she kept one arm around his waist while extracting the torpedo one handed, even tossing the thing to centralise her grip on it. The smoke was wearing thin now and Fisk directed her to crouch behind the cover of the bridge structure. He held up a hand and shook himself free of her grip, looking for Moore, but he collapsed. A combination of lightheaded dizziness and groggy imbalance left him a bewildered mess on the floor, and Siren dutifully scooped him up with one arm and pulled her into her care. His leg injury was bleeding through its bindings, but there was no time to get it seen to. If this last effort didn't pull off, they were all done for.
That thought made him waver. He found himself clinging to her, burying his head in her firm shoulder. He was saying something but he knew it sounded like a drunkard's lament. He wanted to thank her, beg her, praise her. In response she kissed him, then shook him by the shoulder back to clarity. She flinched as a something hit the torpedo, having no clue what to do with it, and Fisk guided it in her hands down and out of harm's way so he could work on the fuse. Keeping himself steady against her he willed concentration as he withdrew the proximity fuse and replaced it with a contact detonator. This task drained his failing strength and she had to hold him upright with an arm about the waist.
"Go...and fuck up that tank..." he thought he said, but she shook him again. It was hard to stay awake. He threw a hand towards the tank, unable to keep his arm steady to point with. As he looked at her desperately through fading sight, her expression lit up with comprehension. Placing him carefully in the cover of the bridge she vaulted over the side.
Moments passed while she rushed through the clearing smoke. Though she had spent the last few hours in almost constant exertion, watching her run now would have made anyone believe she was a champion athlete fresh to her racecourse. The tank's machineguns converged in their attempt to chase her as she bolted on at a diagonal angle to it. The mossy ground spat angrily on her heels and just when it seemed as though the guns must finally find their mark, she broke into a handless cartwheel and changed direction, throwing their aim off again. The terror of watching this desperate gambit play out, with their survival as the prize and this incredible, beautiful woman's life as the bargain, flooded Fisk with adrenaline as he clawed his way forward across the deck to watch with baited breath. The torpedo, easily the weight of two or three men, seemed merely an elongated inconvenience as she flipped and sprinted and rushed and skidded toward the tank. The gunners seemed to become more and more frantic, their twin arcs of fire converging and separating at every new move or change of trajectory. The armoured vehicle began to reverse, like an elephant afraid of a mouse, until it crashed into the protruding wreck of the Lexian aircraft they had found earlier. Unable to move any further, the main gun fired at the amazon, and Fisk felt himself scream aloud as a huge pall of smoke and soggy sods descended, obscuring Siren from view.
When the smoke cleared, she was on the floor motionless. The tank had been waiting to see the fruits of its labours, and now satisfied, craned its gun up to aim at the boat once more. Fisk felt all of his adrenaline suck out of him, leaving only tears, exhaustion and guilt in their wake. He hadn't just failed. All of the lives he had expended in this sad bid to achieve *something* from their nonsensical mission had been totally in vain - and now, the life of this companion, who had trusted and protected him without question, had been sacrificed too. The tank fired again and Fisk was numb to the maelstrom of burning sparks and metal that flew from its impact. The heat of the blast seemed a distant billow against the numbing, frozen dread overcoming him. Finally some collapsing wreckage caused him to flinch and react defensively, covering his face.
When he peered back over the mangled prow, Siren was up and running straight at the tank's side. Blind to her presence, she rushed straight at its flank and hurled the javelin overhead with both hands. It crossed like a javelin, fully thirty meters through the air to connect with the side of the tank and the resulting explosion shook the earth. Fisk stared aghast, having seen many such blasts but none above water, then tears became joyful relief as the blasted-open remnants of the tank were revealed by the clearing flames. Siren, felled again by this massive blast, picked herself up and dusted herself off, then started walking back toward the boat which was still crawling, shunt by enormous shunt, toward the next river. Her pale skin and scant bikini now much maligned by powder burns, mud and bloody scrapes, Siren for all that had happened seemed relaxed - if a little breathless - in her triumphant return. The sailors were cheering and celebrating and rushed out to hug her, and Fisk passed out, smiling.
The tank was destroyed, a torn open can of burning metal and cooking ammunition. The amazons, many wounded, pushed the boat until its bow was touching the water and most were now resting while a few forced the metal hull to comply while the crew welded and hammered it into some semblance of seaworthiness. The Lander had been ignored during the battle and emerged unscathed, and now its crew attached a tow line from their boat to Fisk's. Most of the boat's surviving crew remained above deck, such was the dismal state of their dead comrades below. Perhaps five men survived unharmed, Moore counting himself among them. There were seven wounded, most seriously, and five wounded amazons to contend with. But once the last of the tank-shell punctures was hastily patched, relief and celebration cut through even the stench of burned flesh and spilled blood. The other boat, Kitchener reported, had passed a quarter hour before when the Lander decided to turn about.
Ahead then, was the rest of the flotilla and the tentative possibility of rest. Behind was hostile country, swarming with enemies, but perhaps now they understood that the war had finally come to meet them even in this distant delta. Arman was already busy working on the wounded, not least commander Fisk, who would have died if left to bleed for a minute longer. Rest then, and repair.
The boat slithered north to join its stricken sister, and the crew watched behind for fear of further pursuit.
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Wonderful last chapter.
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Omg I loved it ! Thaank you for this amazin story !
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(this segment may be familiar if any of you read my original feeling-out samples. I'll try and get a continuation done before Christmas.)
JAL’S JOURNEY:
Jal Kang balled his fists obsessively as he awaited his fate. His wrists were shackled with a Cryer containment device. Any attempt to tamper with them would result in his hands being severed. The Zephyr had given him a smooth ride but his arse was numb from perching on a cold metal bench. The sack over his head concealed much. He knew there were guards. The question was, were they lame conscripts, Truebloods who were brutal but at least had personalities, or the damned Cryer clones who were unfeeling and implacable?
He had been here for two hours at least, reliving the ignominious defeat that led to his capture. Fighting in the Dafnese city of Yaris, he and his elite team of special forces had been working to eliminate a high profile target deep within enemy occupied territory. General Vallas had been inspecting the front to get a picture of things with his own eyes, and so Kang and his ten man squad worked meticulously to infiltrate the city. They passed through ruined buildings and skeletal remains of the city, shattered icons of their country now draped with the flags of their occupiers and echoing with the relentless tramp of marching boots. They ignored idling herds of hated clone enemies, passed artillery firing storms of rockets onto their comrades in arms, and turned away from prisoners being thrown against the wall and shot. And they found their man, surrounded by suicidal defences.
Killing him, his staff, and some twenty five to fifty more of his men was easy. A pair of laser-guided strikes neutralised two heavy tanks and sent them to ground, where he and his men shredded them with silenced weapons. For good measure they threw smart mines across the bloody concrete and rushed for their extraction point. But the noise was too much. They were harried from the first building and every firefight delayed them enough for the noose to tighten. Eventually Kang and two survivors staggered out into their extraction zone, no ammo and wounded, only to find themselves staring at a platoon of Clones entrenched all around, twenty foot Overseers pointing their gun barrels expectantly at the door they emerged from. They were taken and captured. After an initial interrogation established that Kang was the leader, his men were disposed of. Then he was sent back for ‘special techniques’. Where that was done though, was anyones guess. Flying for ages now, they were well away from Dafne. Probably back toward Larinth.
He heard the Zephyr’s engines undulate as it prepared to land, and felt the uneasy change in gravity as it started to descend. It touched down gently and then he heard the doors opening. He was dragged to his feet and half walked, half carried out by two powerful guards, presumably clones. He walked across wooden decking into an oppressive, moist air. The sounds of teeming insects or wildlife abounded, it sounded like the zoo. In the distance he could hear machineries, woodsaws whining, engines revving, aircraft ticking over. He was led through a secure electronic door into a building. He was led through more doors, some security checkpoints that he was made to wait at, and at which his fingerprints were taken. Then he was pushed on down some metal stairs and into a much colder, much quieter part of the complex. Here the floor was slimy and uneven, natural cave. Then he was thrown into a cave while a door slammed shut behind him.
Tugging off the hood he could see he was in an artificial hollow carved into natural rock. It was roughly six by six feet, though the walls were uneven. There was no bed save for a dirty rag, and only an ominous hole in the corner, with a standpipe leading to a hatched hole beside the door. There was no privacy. The ‘open’ wall of the cave was armaglass, and inches thick by the look of it. In the armaglass a Impact marks made permanent impressions on its surface where something strong and massive had tried to break out. As he looked, the walls of the cavern were marked with damage. Fist impressions, human shaped. Claw marks where prisoners had desperately tried to tunnel through the rock with their bare hands. Someone had widened the latrine hole considerably, revealing only inky blackness. He spat into the hole but no sound came back except for a muffled noise of rushing water. In any event, it still wasn’t wide enough to fit down. He could get a foot in, maybe. It was warmer than the brig back at Centronom Barracks. There was another cell across the corridor from his own, and from where he was he knew there were other cells but could not see into them. There was no one in the cell opposite. He was here alone, as far as he could tell.
He waited for hours. No guards patrolled, no sounds from above. He took the opportunity to relieve himself while there was relative privacy. Then he decided to try and rest, not knowing when he might get another chance. The floor was cold and clammy, and he quickly relied on the ominously stained rag for its minute comfort. He never really fell asleep, his mind filled with torturous visions of his squadmates and the manner of each of their deaths. He was saved from this subliminal agony by the sound of footsteps in the corridor, and the door opening. As he was raising himself off the floor a pair of Larinthian truebloods rushed in and tazed him. Stunned, a bag was thrust over his head and he was dragged out of the cell and back up the stairs. He could hear people talking quietly, a man and a woman, behind his two jailors.
He was brought to a stop and deposited on the floor, where his feet were shackled separately. Then the shackles from his hands were removed and replaced with cold metal ones that no longer bound his hands together but instead kept them apart.
“Take his hood off” Said a woman with a sharp voice. His hood was pulled away, revealing a brightly lit room with stainless steel panelled walls and a floor with perforated metal decking. It had signs of old blood caking the holes beneath his feet. He knew from the chains this was a torture chamber. But he could see no implements. No tools. His chains were a part of a harness or frame of wrought metal that stood like a square archway above and on either side of him. The chains were incredibly heavy on his wrists and just to shuffle a foot seemed like hard labour. They ran through incredibly heavy-duty rings that fed them in turn to somewhere behind him. There was an ominous, authoritative knocking sound behind him, of wooden blocks or archaic machinery at work. The chains rattled as they were brought to tension, then he felt his arms being raised by the chains as they were pulled taught. Eventually he was pulled into the air, only a foot or so, and the manacles around his ankles were pulled tight enough to prevent him from raising a leg. So suspended, Jal understood grimly that here was an industry of torture. A dedication to the art.
“Leave us” the woman commanded, and the two truebloods left in silence. She stalked in front of him, and he was treated to a gorgeous display. A woman of exotic, opulent beauty stood taller than he thanks to some lethal eight inch stiletto heels on red leather boots that climbed high up her thighs. The legs they encased were muscular, but shapely, and the warm tanned expanse of her upper thigh and buttock undulated with powerful tone. She wore a matching leather one-piece that seemed to rest on her body rather than shape it, displaying the full measure of her dimensions and fitness completely. Flawless flesh bulged from the bodice top, just tight enough to keep a constant pressure on her proud breasts, disguising their fullness with compression. Her shoulders and upper arms were bare, revealing smouldering skin that looked warm to the touch, while long leather gloves ended past her elbows. Her face was a portrait of composed beauty, meticulous make up and hair-setting giving her a regal air. Unfortunately her expression ruined, or perhaps completed, the look. She gave him a moment to bask in her presence before she drew a long breath through her nose, as if quieting a rising temper.
“I won’t lie to you, boy. I’m not here to interrogate you. The army have their own people for that.” She slinked up to him, running her gloved hands across his sturdy body. She passed behind, her hands massaging his shoulders slightly. “I’m here to enjoy you.” Jal couldn’t keep a grin from his face, which she seized upon and traced with a leather-clad finger. Then she brought a knee, swift as a scorpion’s tail, up into his midriff. It felt like a sledgehammer, rocking him back and forth on the taught chains and causing him to wretch miserably while he fought to recover the air in his lungs.
“I’m here to enjoy you, not the other way round.” She rubbed his wounded torso, as if feeling for damage. “Your body...its resilient. They tell me you’re a special forces man. You’ve been trained to resist torture.” She slipped behind him again and this time he wasn’t grinning. Her arm lashed around his neck and locked him into her elbow joint tightly, choking him. She hooked a leg over his hip, clenching their bodies together. “That’s good. I like a man with stamina.” She squeezed his neck so tightly he was worried his spine would break. Then as suddenly as she had attacked, she slipped away again, releasing him to consider his predicament further.
“You’re in for a treat. Some men pay me riches for what I’m going to do to you. But they pay for the security of living at the end. What I enjoy, is testing the limits. My limits. Your limits. I’m fascinated by the act of enduring. I think its such a beautiful quality in people. This land is full of enduring people. The amazons here, they’re...” she sighed sensually, dramatically “...indomitable. I can exhaust myself on them and they still won’t break, they still want more. Such a lovely breed, so strong. Of course, most are too much trouble to keep around for long. They're hard work, and all hard work and no play makes us ...frustrated, don't you think?”
She had walked around him again and now her words were in his ears again. Her whisper felt like the eerie closeness of a crawling spider on his shoulder. “So you're my plaything. You won’t last one minute of what an amazon can stand. I’ll have to be very gentle with you just to try you out.” She crossed in front of him again and stepped right up to him, her bodice brushing against his bare chest. He stared grimly into her eyes trying to read what was going on in there, but she was glassy-eyed, unerringly calm. Serene even.
She stretched her arms above him and grabbed the metal rings his chains were strung through, hanging off the ground by a few inches, then slowly and deliberately raised her legs straight either side of his body. She moved with the complete, practiced precision of a gymnast, not a shudder or a twitch of effort. The movements made her muscles definite, and the only exertion she showed was a long, impatient breath through her nose again. She smiled and cocked an eyebrow as her legs touched his sides, and she made a point of showing her control by stroking him up and down with her leather boots. Her legs wrapped all the way around him but still didn’t close, curling instead at the knee so she sat in a ‘flying lotus’ position around his waist, still hanging her weight from her arms on the rings. Her pelvis touched his. Jal didn’t know whether to find the experience erotic or unnerving. Progressing the hold, her legs coiled like a python around his trunk. She used this position to move him, showing that she had total control of his body. Then, she squeezed.
Jal almost vomited with the overwhelming force she exerted on his lower torso. The pressure was so sudden and so intense that he was paralysed while she clenched, and could only shake and feel himself turning red in the face while the oxygen in his lungs grew impatient to escape. She kept up the hold until the air exploded like a sneeze from his lips. The soldier whimpered feebly as his lungs tried, and failed, to breathe more air back in. Utterly immobilised, the dominatrix smiled warmly and released him, resting her legs loosely on his hips. She made a noise of amusement and satisfaction.
“I love that feeling. The build – the resistance – and then...surrender. Did you enjoy it? Are you in my fan club now?”
Jal retorted breathlessly. “Free BDSM? They told me I was going to a prison camp, not a brothel.”
She flashed a wicked smile and wrinkled her nose at him. “Oh this isn’t a prison camp, little boy. But I do get paid for house visits...”
She straightened her legs, wide off of him again, then brought them together with such force his spittle exploded out across her face uncontrollably. She simply shook her head and intensified her grip on him, prolonging the most intense urgency he had ever felt in his life. It felt for all the world as if he was trapped in machinery, an iron vice. The pressure mounted, slowly, sensually even, until he felt as though his lungs were going to erupt out through his mouth. Each time he thought it couldn’t get any worse, she pushed him further, piquing the squeeze with skilful, gentle, microscopic increases. It wasn't pain. It was panic akin to drowning, or being smoked out of a room. Airlessness and suffocation.
After thirty seconds he was gurning audibly and she laughed at him. She let go of the rings above, letting her full weight hinge on her pressure hold, eliciting a growl of pain from Kang. Then she wrapped her arms gently around his head and nuzzled him into her breasts soothingly, still maintaining the asphyxiating grip.
“Oh, you poor thing. This isn’t even half of what I can do to you. Can you imagine twice this much pressure? I’d cut you in half!” Jal groaned unintelligibly. “Oh don’t worry about the mess you made. I’ve had far worse. It always excites me to get a reaction from my playthings. You’re really adorable when you’re suffocating to death. I’m going to stop now in case I break you.” She released him and for a short while Jal was unable to breathe even when she dismounted completely and wiped her face with her gloved hands. Then she knocked on the door and two pleased-looking Truebloods lumbered through to let her out of the dungeon.
“Since I’m here, I may as well ask...” she purred while he shudderingly, desperately, breathed “...what regiment are you in?”
Jal said nothing, just kept breathing. They already knew the answer anyway from his uniform. This was merely powerplay.
“Oh, you’re going to be a lot of fun, little plaything. Bye for now!” And with a blown kiss, her powerful staccato strides echoed away. The two Truebloods watched her leave appreciatively, before turning their whips and armoured gauntlets toward Jal.
* * * * * * * *
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<Sorry about the faffing about. Happier with the atmosphere of this one.>
It took two hours for the goons to exhaust themselves, and then he was dragged breathless and bloody back to his cell where a bowl of food had been left on the floor. The food was rice with some shoots, berries, and a few nuts cooked in. It was served through a two-way hatch that he was ordered to stand clear of, and a dart gun was pointed through to ensure his compliance. Comparatively considerate to attempt a balanced meal out of the patently limited scraps on offer, he thought. There wasn't enough to count towards his five a day but it did mean he wasn't just eating bland rice. Not a grain escaped his lips. The bowl was made from a form of clay that, when subject to pressure, crumbled in his hands. It wouldn't be good enough to dig with let alone fight with.
He leaned against the rock wall and regretted it instantly as his bruised and lacerated back revolted against the disturbance. When his wounds were most at peace however, it was the uneasy feeling that some lasting damage had been done below his ribs that bothered him. A scissorhold was a feature of many grappling schools, as it cemented control of an opponent's body while the arms did more lethal work, making a hold harder to break. It was rarely the function or purpose of a hold, however. In terms of vital strike points, there wasn't much below the ribs worth striking at if your intention was to disable an opponent. A good blow to the abdomen could stun anyone, but as a finisher you would by default opt for something that targeted airflow, circulation, or range of movement. He found himself wondering if there was some nerve cluster he hadn't been told about. Or had his attractive jailor simply never skipped leg day in her life?
He spent a portion of his day after that gruelling introduction practicing breathing, trying to focus his mind on nothing but the recuperation of his body. Satisfied with his success, he dedicated the remainder of his time to contemplating escape. The obvious vulnerability was when he was being collected for interrogation, which involved a three-man group entering the cell. They would taze him before anything else, then two would bind his arms and legs while a third put a hood over his head. While they were doing that, none of them could operate a weapon. While they were all brawny men and no doubt had some training in self-defence - being vaunted Truebloods and the supposed elite of the Larinthian army - no one was ever prepared for a surprise attack. The question was, could he recover from being tazed quickly enough to launch one? He would need to attempt this plan sooner rather than later, as a few more days of treatment like this and he would be in no condition to overcome anyone, let alone armed and armoured Truebloods. If they were conscripts he would reckon his chances optimistically, but these were an elite, and they were all muscular meatheads with good equipment.
Jal soon learned however that the Truebloods were not the only watchdogs in this place. He was woken from his thin, uncomfortable sleep by a guttural belch that echoed through the modified cavern. Something was being dragged into the room with heavy, meaty footfalls, but before his mind could imagine the scene it crossed his vision. An immense anthropod, fifteen feet of slab-like, turgid flesh that drooped as if melted. It's skin was a putrid grey-green and mottled with dark blotches like liver spots, and textured like dappled leather or shagreen. It's mass bulged out at the gut and hips, sloping off to an unevenly shaped head. It's face held a single black eye and enormous, drooling mouth filled with unhealthy blunt teeth. The thing wore nothing but a leather loincloth made from - hopefully - a large animal hide, and tied with rope. It trudged forward lazily, like a lummock scolded into doing chores, its long, meaty arms nearly dragging on the floor. In its far left hand, partly obscured by body mass, it held a tuft of dark hair. The hair belonged to a barely-dressed female form being dragged along, unconscious presumably as no sound came from her. A woman Jal couldn't see barked a command harshly in Larinthian. "Stop!"
The brute stopped with a grumbled complaint. Another command followed; "Leave!" Nothing happened. The brute turned to face the voice at the end of the cavern but did not release its victim.
"I said, leave!" The massive grotesque looked from the woman trailing by her hair to the direction of the voice with a sort of confused whimper. The commanding voice lost their patience. "Fuck this, taze him."
Two long poles came into view. These were some kind of tazer-lance, attached to backpacks on some very nervous-looking men in unfamiliar uniforms. They weren't clad in the black, gold, white, blue of Larinthian regulars. They wore grey overalls with red armour, and their faces were obscured by goggles and respirators. As they edged toward the giant it looked from one to the other and shrieked, torn between fear of their lances and the petulant desire to keep hold of its property. The lances closed and touched the monster, causing it to recoil and yelp. It bellowed again, but the lances drove it back, and it finally abandoned the woman to flee to the far end of the cavern. "Keep him there while we lock her up."
Two more guards rushed forward, collapsing their lances that folded double and then clipped onto their backpacks. They picked up the unconscious woman, who despite being inert seemed taller and broader than either of them. Jal could see now that her muscular, full body was no joke as both men grunted and cursed under her weight. Her head lolled round and he caught a glimpse of her beauty, irrepressible despite the bruising and mud. The new prisoner confined, the two guards left and the door sealed shut. They now unclipped and extended their lances to support the two unfortunates keeping the giant at bay. "Ok, the amazon is secure. Lances on standby, let's try recall; Lennox, come!"
The speaker stepped into view. At first he thought it was a younger twin sister of his sadistic torturer from earlier in the day, but quickly surmised the raven bob hairstyle was clearly in vogue or perhaps some uniform requirement in the Larinthian's strange ranks. She was shorter by a good margin, standing maybe 5"6, and better dressed in camouflaged fatigues, though her jacket was tied by its sleeves around her waist and her sweat-dampened crop top revealed a toned midriff of bronzed skin. At her hip she wore a holstered pistol with a strange grapnel, and on the other hung a coiled of wire or rope, or possibly a whip. Her hair was kept off her face by a simple golden circlet. She ignored Jal as she concentrated on ordering the giant brute, who after a second attempt began cautiously to plod toward her. When it was stood a meter or so away she bravely stepped toward it and reached for its hand. "Good boy." She soothed, waving the lance-wielding guards away with her free hand. "Let's see what else we can catch, come on."
As the woman turned to leave she spotted Jal, but after a moment's surprised recognition, went on her way. Jal listened to her voice fading away; "I heard they sequestered a Dafnese prisoner from the Western theatre, that must be the guy. What do you reckon they're going to do with him...?"
Jal did not sleep. It wasn't just the noise of their new warden, but the ramifications of the newcomers. Where in the End Times was he? The fact he was imprisoned in a modified cave threw questions enough, for while the Larinthians undoubtedly had many facilities built underground, it was not typically their style to take any old cavern and convert it into a prison. The Larinthians were a race of arrogant, domineering types. They wanted to control the land, to bend it to their will. Building something that made use of a natural feature was...tame of them. It went against their philosophy. The new troops had him at a loss too, for while he knew the enemy was a match for even Dafnese technology, these lances were a new one on him. He had seen clone troopers using tazers on prisoners of war, they were hand-held sidearms, not full on built-for-purposes lances with backpack mounted power sources. The armaglass too was unlike anything he had encountered. It was common enough on aircraft cockpits or vehicle vision slits, but this site betrayed industry and paradox. If they had the industry to manufacture such things, why rely on the crude dimensions of a pre-existing cavern? Would making a facility for purpose really be beyond them?
Then there was the beast. The clones were inhuman monsters - men copied and broken so that their individuality was simply no factor except in so far as deciding how each could support the objectives of the unit. Self preservation and fear had been conditioned out somehow. They had no inhibitions, because they lacked imagination. They were predictable, but also implacable. But this...thing, was a whole new creature, not simply a distortion of a man. Or was it? It was shaped like a man, vaguely. It behaved like a lumbering animal, savage no doubt but also docile. What was it? Why was it?
Lastly there was his unconscious jail-mate. How anyone might have survived any kind of encounter with such a creature was beyond him, but he assumed the woman had been captured by the beast - otherwise, it would have been menials dropping her into a cell, not the strange parade of handlers with electrified lances. How else had it come to have her by the hair, he wondered. So who was she, and where was she from? It was by now commonplace to see women serving in Lexian flight groups, Argonian Militias, Dafnese fireteams and even Myrmad ship crews. But a woman of such stature and build was not commonplace and, in any event, even a tough cookie would be crumbled in a fight with her cyclopean captor. He could only cast conjecture, but these details worried him more than the torture.
Nothing about his stay here was regular. Nobody had checked him in, no one had been taking notes during his S&M session earlier. The one casual question about his regiment was superfluous and intended to test his pliability rather than learn anything useful. Even what he had seen of the troops here was unusual. He had so far not caught a glimpse of any conscripts, and now had been introduced to a whole new division with unfamiliar fatigues who apparently specialised in...giant herding? No officers had come to shake him down, no guards patrolled the cell block. Admittedly the cells seemed impregnable, but he felt more like livestock than a prisoner. These weren't cells, they were pens.
The questions kept him awake for a long time. When he slept, it was despite his troubled mind.
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wonderful set up, great writing and another marvelous chapter....K++
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<Sorry about the poor showing over the holidays. I will have new work commitments in the new year so I may slow down a bit - especially as everything now is brand new, rather than expanding on existing material. But hopefully this one thickens the plot a bit. Thanks for your ongoing support and encouragement!>
Jal was woken by a leather-shod slap round the face. "Rise and shine darling!" His body reacted instinctively and he was on his feet before his mind had truly reached awareness. The tall tormentor from yesterday was here in the cell with him, and laughed at his fighting stance. "Oh, really?" She baited. Jal paused awkwardly, weighing the situation. There were no truebloods outside the cell. There was no sign of the gargantuan cyclops. It was just him and the cruel beauty in red leather. He might never get an opportunity like this again. She might never skip leg day, but he had been trained in the Shock Wing Cadres. Three months of gruelling physical conditioning in the highest mountains humans could live upon. Close Quarters Combat training from career-hardened professional killers. Though his adversary clearly took good care of herself, he was brawnier than her. His confidence tightened into fists that parted slowly and deliberately into a fighting stance.
Sensing his decision, a cruel smile crossed her lips as she assumed a posture of her own, limbs drifting wide in a graceful dance. Her stance invited an attack but he knew from the way her limbs were gently shifting that it was a trap. He erred on the side of caution and went straight for her face with a flurry of strikes, hoping to blind and disorient her.
The first lunge was deftly evaded by a jink of her head. She moved no more than was necessary to avoid the blow, her left hand grabbing his right wrist. He quickly brought in a follow up strike, a two-fingered gouge aimed at her eyes, and she skillfully thwarted the strike by moving his own arm into its path. Then she grabbed his other arm, tying up his hands . Taken aback by her speed Jal sought to use her own grip on him to throw her to the ground, wrenching his arms round and over to the left, but instead of resisting her body bent with his force as she raised one leg high. His force redirected beyond his control, he teetered off-balance. As her centre of gravity moved she simply transferred her weight to him by wrapping that long leg around his arms and gripping with the other, so that not only was he rolling forward with his own attack, her own weight was now contributing to that inertia. When they fell Jal was locked into an armbar that she teased him with painfully. He had both hands inside her leg hold and managed to prevent her from locking him in completely, though he was still prone and she still had full control of one of his arms.
She laughed as he resisted the break. He dug a thumb into a pressure point on her calf, trying to gain an opening, but found only rock-solid muscle there. Rather than go for the shoulder as the setup of her hold suggested, she contented herself instead to concentrate on prising his index finger out. He realised what she was about too late and could only lunge desperately as she broke it, scuffing them both about the floor and allowing her to lock her legs around his arm. Then she went for his third finger, laughing as he tried to shake her off more and more tiredly. He managed to force himself standing and, though her control was considerable, she was unable to knock him back off balance and he rose with her hanging off his arm. Just as he prepared to scrape her off with a foot to her neck, she changed tactics again, forsaking the hand and choosing now to lever her body for a throw just as his foot raised to turn the tables. Her body undulated like a whip as she lurched under him, back arching while her legs clutched and hauled him over onto the hard floor. It was no move he had ever been taught about.
He was in exactly the same situation as before, her hold now cemented in thanks to the momentary shock and stunning of his landing. He lasted five minutes of brutal agony until she exerted her full power and leverage, snapping his elbow joint as simply as a twig. She released him to his howl of pain, laughing at him as he lumbered to his feet, then ducked under an enraged swing with his left hand and locked him in a half-nelson. He tried to use his body weight to check her off balance, but she deliberately held her ground as if to prove his efforts were wasted. Then, with another well-timed shift of gravity, her legs were around his waist and she was squeezing hard. Jal rammed her into the cold rock wall as hard as he could, striking her head and shoulders hard against it once, twice, three times and causing her to stifle a moan of pain. In response her legs closed tighter and tighter still around his body, driving the air out of his lungs until he could only press her feebly against the wall. She bared her teeth as she squeezed harder, driving him slowly down to one knee. He had craned his left arm, locked at the elbow by her two-handed hold, so that he could get a thumb into her eye. But as he reached across her face for that desperate purchase she simply reasserted her hold, ducking out of reach and seizing his thumb with one hand.
It broke a moment later. Then she levered her hold on his shoulder and slammed him into the ground face down. With a vindictive snarl she popped his left arm out of its socket and waited while he groaned in agony. As he started to wriggle up onto his knees she landed a kick in his abdomen and another spinning into the back of his head, smashing him back into the floor completely stunned.
"Enough foreplay. You've annoyed me with your insolence. You can start begging now."
She grabbed him by the hair and pulled him off the ground where she could slap him back and forth with practised, ringing blows. The slaps became angry strikes with closed fist as she worked on his teeth, brow, cheekbones and nose that soon bloodied. Whenever he made to move or resist, she drove a brutal knee into his midriff, then hauled him up for more. Boring of the repetition, she paused to look at the blood smearing dark against her red leather glove. "Ugh, you've leaked your disgusting blood all over me, you Dafnese whelp." She released him to wipe the glove against his body, demonstrating his helplessness. Then her hands were around his throat and she was pressing her thumbs into his lifelines. He couldn't feel his arms accurately except for a morass of searing pain, but nevertheless flapped his useless limbs against her as he writhed in her grip, but she controlled him utterly. As his sight began to dim she released him to gasp and choke bloodily on the floor. In a final spite she kicked him in the gut again, causing him to curl into a foetal ball.
"Bested so easily. Dafnese elite indeed. Don't ever try your luck with me again. You don't have any." The bronze woman took a moment to compose herself while Jal gasped gratefully on the floor. "How did you know that General Vallas would be inspecting the front on the day you killed him?"
"Briefed...by intelligence agents...." Jal rasped.
"And where did their intelligence come from?"
"...not sure. Assumed...they had aerial...surveillance."
She kicked him in the stomach again. "Not good enough. The capabilities of your spy drones would tell you a column is moving, not a person. How did you know he would be there? If you lie to me again I'll break something else."
Jal summoned himself. "...we didn't know...he would be there...he was a target...of opportunity...during a sabotage run... You signposted him...a blind man could have known... he was...important enough to kill..."
She digested his words with a rueful nod and an impatient tapping on her leather-clad thigh. Then she snapped the back of her hand across his face, the blow sprawling him onto his back. Standing inside the spread of his legs, she took one and ensnared it with her own in a leg lock. "Are you sure about that?" she demanded, poised to drop her weight on the lever she had set up. When Jal said nothing further, she dropped. The leg didn't break at once, but the pain cut through the soreness of his recent injuries all the same. Then she exerted herself on the lever, bridging to elevate the lock, and something in his knee joint gave with a pop and a fresh shoot of agony. Jal screamed.
"I know you're lying. Tell me the truth."
Jal's mind was too busy with deciding which of his shattered limbs required the more immediate attention to formulate any kind of response. In just a few moments his skills had been effortlessly bested by an adversary of eerie speed and strength. He had no doubt that his moves would have taken most adversaries by surprise, but this cruel beauty had disabled him. That thought dragged fear with it like a rising bile from the pit of his stomach. How would he recover from these injuries in this cell? Was his life really of no value to his captor? A grim realisation began to settle that he was no longer a Prisoner of War. He was something else, something less. A commodity. A plaything.
"If you know I'm lying..." he hissed through gritted teeth "...why are you wasting your time?"
She extricated herself from her lock quickly and slapped him again. "Because it's my time to waste, worm! You think I'm doing this because someone has told me to? Picking you apart limb by limb is the most fun I've had in days..."
She was interrupted by a feint banging from the corridor. Jal followed her distracted gaze to where the woman in the cell opposite was hammering on the cell wall. Seeing her upright and in motion momentarily anaesthetised Jal, who lost himself in the blemished beauty of her expressive face, her tangle of brown hair clinging across a perspiring brow, large naked breasts swinging as she thumped at the cell wall angrily. Her body was incredibly toned, and as she struck her muscles rippled from her abdominals to her shoulders and along her arms. She caught Jal's gaze and her intensity struck fear in his heart, even though she was locked away and an immediate threat was in the room with him. Her animosity, her emotion, her power seemed to focus on him for a moment and he felt her gaze soften imperceptibly. Then she was raging at the armaglass wall again.
"They didn't tell me you had a playmate..." his jailor remarked "...and such a beauty at that!" She exited his cell, locking it behind her. Jal couldn't get off the floor, let alone make a bid to escape. She crossed to a panel in between the cells opposite and spoke to it.
"Laboratory? It's Pythona. Get me some Venom in the holding cells, immediately." She paused to cast an odd glance over Jal. "And a medical team."
The voice on the other end was too muffled for him to make out, but they didn't sound happy. The sadist however paid it no heed, instead glowering at the other woman raging in her cell. The two faced one another and the prisoner paused, hands on the glass, teeth bared and panting. The jailor simply stared at her, placing one of her hands over one of the captive's on the glass. Then she turned to Jal.
"See? This is what I was talking about yesterday. Indomitable. Do you have any idea what it took to bring her here? I've seen Amazons singlehandedly destroy armoured vehicles and platoons of troops. I once watched one pit herself against an oncoming tank and bring it to a standstill. They will do anything to prove their might. They fear nothing, except perhaps the loss of their precious masters..." The Larinthian Mistress paced up and down, her opulent heeled boots clicking on the stone floor. "You've no idea have you? You have no idea of the war going on here, where our real attentions are focussed. Our real goals. The war for your sad little democracy is just..." she threw a hand idly at him, searching for the word "...for completeness' sake. To thin out the serfs a bit. But she's the real prize. She, and all of her genetic sisters. Not even the Amazons know their own worth to us. But they will, in due course."
Jal's consciousness was heavily dulled, but the sound of the door at the end of the passageway opening piqued his over-taxed senses. He made out rushing footsteps and a feint whirring noise, but the new voice that followed startled him, the amazon in the cell opposite, and the jailor momentarily. It sounded for all the world like a mechanical bird, a cross between radio static and megaphone. It wasn't human, it was electronic.
"HOW DARE YOU INTERFERE WITH MY SPECIMENS! THIS YEAR I HAVE LOST ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY SIX DAYS OF QUANTIFIABLE STUDY TO YOUR LURID DEGENERACY. IF YOU WISH TO WASTE YOUR TIME SATISFYING YOUR BIZARRE URGES YOU SHOULD FIND A PATRON TO ESTABLISH YOUR OWN BASE AND CAPTURE OPERATIONS. YOU ARE MORE THAN CAPABLE OF SEDUCING SOME HALFWITTED NOBLE FOR THIS PURPOSE, WHY DO YOU PERSIST IN LEECHING FROM MY STUDIES IN THIS REVOLTING MANNER?"
"Vizier-General, what an unexpected delight. And you come bearing compliments no less..." The jailor purred while rushing medics brought a gurney into Jal's room and began assessing his injuries. The door was wide open, but Jal was by now throbbing with pain and quite incapable of moving in any progressive manner. His eyes closed as the medics painfully determined where the breaks were and set about securing him to a stretcher. "...I hasten to remind you that I am here at the specific request of High Steward Badduk, to ensure that due dilligence is followed at all times by your...irregular staff here, Midas."
As Jal opened his eyes again he could see the new speaker through the open doorway and for a moment assumed he was hallucinating. A small cowled figure was huddled upon a four-legged platform, resembling something akin to a wrought-iron table. The legs moved with surprising grace, effortlessly treading in any direction to avoid the blithe arrogance of the jailor as she sauntered to and fro. He could not see the face inside the cowl, only two blue lights where eyes might be. The strange mobile platform had a variety of appendages folded against its circular edge, one or two of which gesticulated as a person might while talking. Unhappy with this new information, Jal closed his eyes again as the medics lifted him - agonisingly - onto the stretcher.
"YOUR BANISHMENT TO THIS FACILITY IS NO SECRET TO ME, PYTHONA. YOUR MYRIAD INDISCRETIONS NO DOUBT INTERFERRED WITH THE PLEASURE OF HIS HIGHNESS. THE 'SPECIFIC REQUEST' OF THE HIGH STEWARD ALSO DETAILED THE SURPRISING ATTRITION AND CASUALTY RATE OF THE PALACE GUARD DESPITE NO INSURGENCY IN THE CAPITAL. ROYAL CONCUBINES TOO WERE AFFECTED. YOU MAY FOOL THE RANK AND FILE VASSALS OF THE STATE HERE WITH YOUR PRETENTIONS OF AUTHORITY BUT I AM IN FULL COMMAND OF THIS FACILITY AND MY TOLERANCE FOR ERROR IS PRECISELY TWO PERCENT. IN ONLY FOUR WEEKS YOU HAVE REDUCED THE EFFICIENCY OF MY PROGRAMMES BY NINETEEN-POINT-FOUR-SEVEN PERCENT. THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE."
The jailor - or Pythona as the newcomer called her - sauntered carelessly away from her accuser while purring her reply."As I recall, Midas, you rather enjoyed my tolerance studies. You seemed very eager to measure everything about me and the specimens we were testing."
The walking platform started forward indignantly. "THAT DATA WAS USEFUL! WHAT DATA HAVE YOU PRODUCED FROM THIS PATHETIC LAPSE IN SELF CONTROL?"
By now the medics had administered local anaesthetics, which didn't help Jal to stay awake but did mean it wasn't prolonging his own suffering just doing so. He found himself watching the argument outside his cell as it became clear he was being spared for some other fate. Pythona had her back to the cowled figure and was waving her hand dismissively. "This is just tenderising. No one can withstand me forever. Once the necessary atmosphere of hopelessness and subservience has been established, your subjects will be totally pliant. You won't have to waste energy, guards and machines in trying to restrain them. You think that any material cost is acceptable to get your results, but mine is a cheaper way in the long run."
"YOU CAN DISGUISE YOUR PERVERSIONS HOWEVER YOU LIKE. LEAVE MY SPECIMENS ALONE. IF IT WILL STOP YOU FROM INTERFERRING I CAN ASSIGN A PROCUREMENT UNIT TO BRING YOU YOUR OWN SAMPLES. YOUR RAMPANT DEBAUCHERY NEED NOT AFFECT MY WORK THEN. FOR NOW I HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL THIS SUBJECT IS HEALTHY BEFORE CONDUCTING ANY FURTHER TESTS, THANKS TO YOUR UNMITIGATED EXCESSES."
Pythona laughed, a rich and scornful sound. "Oh that's alright, he's boring anyway." She turned back to the caged amazon who was now staring in a mixture of disbelief and disgust at the huddled figure on his walking plinth. The torturer caressed the glass with a leather-sheathed finger. "I want this one."
"UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCE!" The plinth trotted until it barged between the sadist and her captured quarry, waving clawed appendages that snapped energetically while she yielded some space. "WE ARE LONG OVERDUE RESULTS ON THE SYNAPTIC PSYCHO-SOCIAL CONDITIONING LEFT BY THE FANTERAN PROGENITORS. MARSHAL BARRABUS HAS SCALED BACK CAPTURE EFFORTS WITH HIS FORCES DUE TO THE LOGISTICAL DEMANDS OF HIS CONSTRUCTION PROJECTS. CATCHES LIKE THIS WILL BE RARER MOVING FORWARD UNTIL THE AUXILLARIES ARRIVE IN GREATER NUMBERS AND OUR NEW METHODS ARE ROLLED OUT TO THEM. KEEP YOUR LEGS OFF MY TEST SUBJECTS - GO AND PLY YOUR TRADE IN THE FIELD IF YOU MUST. PERHAPS YOU CAN HELP TO IMPROVE THE CAPTURE SUCCESS RATE." Pythona assumed an exaggerated sulking stance, fidgeting with her arms behind her back and swinging one leg idly as she pouted at the floor.
"AS FOR THIS ONE, I WILL REVOKE YOUR PASSCODES TO THIS FACILITY IF YOU CANNOT CONTAIN YOURSELF. IT WILL BE MY HEAD THAT ROLLS WHEN HIS HIGHNESS IS UNABLE TO EXPLOIT THE BOUNTIFUL LABOUR AND LEISURE PROSPECTS THAT THIS REGION PROMISES."
At this the torturer laughed. "Oh Midas, you don't have a head to lose! I'll be sure to tell dearest Rex you did everything in your...crippled...artificial...desperate power to oblige his ambitions." She punctuated her barbs with caresses, along the back of his cowl, around the perimeter of his plinth, and finally by shoving the plinth away so that it had to jog to regain its balance. The medics looked around in concern, but the glowing lights beneath the cowl eventually steadied and seemed to narrow on the sadist.
"A LOT OF THINGS DISAPPEAR IN THIS PLACE, PYTHONA. YOU CAN BE ONE OF THEM."
"But there's an easier way, darling Midas...I could simply help you to help His Highness? Why ever didn't you tell me you were about to start working on the Sacred Bond? Why, this is highly fortuitous! Perhaps I can finally show you that my talents have a place in projects such as this."
"DON'T BE ABSURD. THIS WORK DEMANDS PRECISION, NOT BRUTALITY."
"Oh, but they are brutes, Midas..." now the jailor was leaning on the plinth suggestively, filling the hunched Vizier's vision with her body. "...and I understand brutish things, as you've made plain. Give me five minutes of your time and let me explain how I can help you with this work. I think you'll find I'm just full of ideas when it comes to understanding people..." She all but steered the plinth around to leave with her. The shrill electronic noise of the reply faded as they left the cell block.
"YOU CHEAPEN YOURSELF WITH THIS FUTILE DISPLAY, BUT I AM OPEN TO IDEAS ABOUT HOW TO EXPLOIT THE SACRED BOND. IT IS TRUE MY APPROACH TO THIS PROBLEM WILL BE HINDERED BY SCIENTIFIC METHOD, BUT YOUR FIELD IS MOST CERTAINLY INTERPERSONAL RELATIONS.."
Jal had the feeling his physicians had been eavesdropping as much as he had been, as they exchanged significant glances at their superiors' departure and grumbled about it while administering an injection that sent him to blissful unconsciousness. His last impressions were of being moved on the gurney to some other part of the base. Corridors. An elevator. Then nothing at all.
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<Hi gang, sorry about the protracted absence. I take a while to adjust to new things and don't like too much on my plate at any one time. Lockdown has provided me with rather more time to write my way out of the bottleneck I found myself in with ideas. So here's hoping I can keep things flowing, albeit at a reduced pace to before.>
When the commando came round he was in a different place, white and clinical. He moved his arms beneath him to sit up from the bed, and felt a stab of pain, and remembered the agonies and fear of being bested so easily by the sadistic jailor. But his limbs were intact. Painful, but intact. Sleeve-like wraps sheathed his bare limbs, a strange plastic mesh that made his elbow and knee joints stiff to move.
It was impossible to say how long he had been under, or what they had done to him. The room was furnished with a white table that seemed to rise from the floor without joints or rivets. Two chairs - simple, one-piece plastic things. The only other item in the room was the bed he was lying on, which was equally unremarkable save for its generous size and seemed to be made from one cast of plastic that rose from the floor as if part of the geography of the room. No rivets, screws or bolts to be found, the sheets were precisely fitted, and the duvet was thin and light. Air conditioning blew a gentle and refreshing draft in from a hissing fixture that seemed to be part of the ceiling, not merely a panel placed among tiles. With the exception of the dull, poor-quality metal, and some panels lined with chromed trim, all was white.
There was no clock. He paced the room, familiarising himself with it. Twenty paces across, ten wide. Those panels trimmed in chrome were tamper-proof, owing to the electric shock he received that made him regret tampering with their fixtures, and the ensuing pain seemed to seep into every fracture and crack of his injured limbs. He could hear a rushing sound like rain or steam, but it might have been the sound of his own racing blood as he wrestled with panic and confusion.
He had no idea if it was day or night outside, or if he was even in the same location. He felt physically sore and tired, his wounds ached, but his mind was racing and refused to rest. He tested both chairs - too sturdy to break, uncomfortable to lean back on. He checked under the bed, where it was cleaner than a cadet's boots. The bed was immovable, and he came to rest it and contemplate his situation. He acknowledged that isolation was probably the biggest peril in the room with him. He was separated now from anyone and could not divine anything from outside the room. He found his thoughts wandered, from his foolhardy fracas with the jailor, to the warmth and strength of her thighs squeezing his chest, to her argument with the cowled midget on the walking plinth. They were arguing about the woman in the cell. The dark-haired beauty in the cell opposite. Her muscular physique, attractive proportions and energetic defiance railing against the indestructible glass wall of her cell. More time passed as Jal lost himself recalling everything he could about her, until he was interrupted by a harsh, synthetic voice piping into the room from a source unknown.
"AH, YOU ARE AWAKE. EXCELLENT." Some distortion followed the speaker and Jal realised this was some kind of intercom, searching frantically for a source in the ceiling. There were several suspect articles on the ceiling - similar fixtures with vents and the chromed trim. He thought he might get his fingers inside those vents without touching the electrified guard-fittings. He jumped for them but it was too high.
"ORDINARILY WE WOULD USE YOUR ACCLIMATISATION PERIOD AS A BASELINE STUDY OF YOUR INTELLIGENCE, BUT TIME IS PRESSING. PERMIT ME TO SAVE YOU SOME TIME. THIS ROOM WAS DESIGNED BY MYSELF TO BE INESCAPABLE. YOUR EVERY NEED WILL BE PROVIDED FOR AND YOU HAVE NOTHING TO FEAR BUT NON-COMPLIANCE. IT MAY INTEREST YOU TO KNOW THAT YOU TAMPERED WITH THE FIXTURES FASTER THAN EIGHTY NINE PERCENT OF PREVIOUS OCCUPANTS. HOWEVER, YOU HAVE NOT YET LOCATED THE BATHROOM."
"Oh." Jal found that even with the chair, the ceiling was just too high. It seemed lower than it was thanks to a trick of the light. He stepped off the chair, noting that the voice had not remarked on his failure. "Is that electrified too?"
"YOU JEST, BUT YOU ARE MOST FORTUNATE. I HAVE SPARED YOU FROM THE IGNOMINY OF DYING TO SATISFY A SADISTS CARNAL NEEDS. INSTEAD, YOU WILL BE EMBARKING ON A LANDMARK SCIENTIFIC STUDY WITH ME, AND TREATED WELL. I HAVE BEEN OFFERED MANY THINGS TO DELIVER TO WORTHY PATRONS WHAT I NOW BEGIN WITH YOU. IN TIME YOU WILL REALISE THAT COMPROMISING YOUR PRIVACY AND FREEDOM ARE MINISCULE FEES FOR PROTECTING YOU FROM THE RAVAGES OF A WAR YOU CANNOT WIN, AND THE PREDATIONS OF TROPHY-HUNTING IMBECILES. BETTER TO SERVE SCIENCE, THAN LIVE OUT THE REST OF YOUR DAYS AS A SLAVE. ALREADY I HAVE MENDED IN TWO DAYS, WOUNDS THAT SHOULD HAVE TAKEN MONTHS TO HEAL. YES THEY WILL BE UNCOMFORTABLE FOR SOME TIME, BUT EVEN THE COMPOUND BREAKS IN YOUR HAND HAVE BEEN REJOINED. ANOTHER TECHNOLOGICAL TRIUMPH, THAT REGENERATIVE GAUSS ON YOUR WOUNDS. NOT MY WORK, THOUGH I HAVE MADE SOME MODIFICATIONS OF MY OWN. IT WAS NOT I WHO WOUNDED YOU SO, BUT IT IS I WHO HAS HEALED THE HARM DONE. LET THIS BE THE FOUNDATION OF OUR WORKING RELATIONSHIP."
"So what is it that you need me to do?" Jal prompted the disembodied voice, which he now recognised as that of the Vizier-General his jailor had been bickering with. He grew tired of the enemy's proselytizing and wanted to know their purposes. There was a long pause before any reply came, such that the Dafnese Commando noticed the rushing sound he noticed earlier had subsided while the disembodied voice had been talking.
"THIS IS A SOCIAL STUDY. YOU AND THE OTHER OCCUPANT WILL BE OBSERVED."
"Other occupant...?" Jal started, but as he spoke one of the wall panels at the far end opened and his voice caught in his throat.
For out of the steam came a woman of familiar, striking stature and beauty. Her body rippled with relaxed muscle that seemed to smooth into her sleek curves. Her brown hair was tousled and weighted by moisture and her naked body glistened with residual water. No longer bruised and scuffed, she swept her hair out of her face with a purposeful shake and looked back at her admirer. Jal was mesmerised in the slowing moment at this momentary eye contact, and he felt as exposed as if it were he with no clothes. He averted his gaze, looking at the floor like some embarrassed child. He tracked her peripherally as her feet slapped against the plastic floor toward one of the chairs, where she sat and leaned on the small table in silence. He could hear her hot, angry breaths and feel the tension of muted rage emanating from her.
Jal looked up at the ceiling awkwardly. "So what do want us to do?" He shouted to no one, expecting the Vizier-General to reply, but nothing happened.
* * * * *
She couldn't speak Dafnese. Or Argonian. Or Lexian. And when he spoke Larinthian she understood enough to became aggressive and held him up against the wall by the throat. After convincing her that he was of no threat - a contrary instinct aided by his stiff-limbed injuries - she eventually returned to her silent brooding. The brooding escalated to frustrated tampering as she explored the room, testing fixtures and receiving shocks that didn't seem to worry her as much as they had Jal. She toyed with the door of the bathroom, and as she tested the limits of its swinging axis he noted it was designed to have no breaking point, swinging flat with the walls either side and offering virtually no clearance between ground or ceiling. The hinges were unlike anything he had ever seen, heavy-duty and folding-jointed. She pulled at the door and her exertions, save for a tiny squeak of metal, served only to flex her powerful physique.
With an irritated sigh she clattered along the walls, finding the hollow ones and tugging at their fixtures only to receive more shocks. Then she redoubled herself and heaved on one, standing the electrocution for some seconds before it seemed to increase and throw her across the room. She seemed to meet this increased threat with proportionate anger, hurling herself against the wall with a sickening crash and hammering at it with her fists. Nothing, save for a scrape of blood where her flesh lost the contest with the unusual polymer. She stared at the wall in seething, breathless anger for a time, then seized one of the chairs and smashed it into the wall. To the surprise of them both, the chair simply bent under the powerful blow, challenging her balance and rebounding off the wall. it sprang back into shape with a rubbery twang as she staggered back. The amazon then proceeded to study the chair with interest, wrestling with its upturned legs to try and snap them off, but they bowed and bent, and twisted, all at considerable expense of effort to the muscle-bound beauty. Placing the chair back at the table in embarrassed contemplation, she sucked her bloodied knuckles clean.
Jal felt the peculiar helplessness of spectatorship subside and frowned. There was only one bed, queen sized. Consternation and concern quickly bullied away a pang of excitement at this prospect. He decided to hobble to the bathroom to see what was in there. His sudden movement drew her attention but, seeing him limp stiffly by, she paid him no further heed. The bathroom was surprisingly large for prison accommodation, but its features were sparse. The plumbing was all concealed behind the strong walls. Shower water came from a grille cut into the substance of the ceiling itself, offering no hatch, fixture or fittings to be interfered with. An automatic sensor above detected movement, which he found by accident when it discharged a gout of soap onto his shoulder followed by a stream of warm water that disappeared into rivulets cut into the shower floor that led to thin slits in the bottom of the wall. The toilet also seemed to operate automatically, having no flushing mechanism to be seen or used. It's seat was fixed and a urinal was built into the wall adjacent. There was no sink. Shelves that seemed to rise from the floor like the bed, toilet and table, offered fresh linen in units maybe as tall as a pair of hands one over the other. Examining these fabrics, Jal found they were loose-fitting, basic clothes. Bedsheets, underwear, towels, gowns, and a comfortable-feeling pyjama-like two piece suit. He picked the smaller set and found it to be exactly to his measurements, a disconcerting thought but a welcome comfort. He brought the other set which were presumably made for the amazon, and hazarded to lay them on the table for her.
His gesture seemed to take her by surprise, and she angrily swatted the fabrics to the floor and rose. Jal held his hands up and backed away to the bathroom again, deciding he may as well finish showering since he was covered in soap. The woman snarled something as he left, so she wasn't mute, but it was no language he had ever heard in his life.
There was a mirror in the bathroom and as he looked at himself he found he could scarcely recognise the man he saw. His hair had been shaved off and his face, while not as battered as he expected, showed signs of healed bruising and stitched cuts. He seemed thin and powerless, a far cry from the capable elite he had been last time he looked in a mirror. The proof of his weakness came to him then in waves, losing his team one by one in their deadly mission, failing to protect the survivors when they were taken prisoner, failing to best his jailor who so effortlessly overwhelmed him and ruined his body. Now he was completely trapped by an enemy who had anticipated his every move, unable to even piss without being observed, forced to share living confines with a scary woman who, he had no doubt, could pull his arms off like a fly if she got irritated. Which didn't seem to take much provocation, as she got annoyed by inanimate objects. He blinked stinging tears away as a bottomless sensation of dread rose from within.
Then there was writing on the mirror. Luminous blue lettering, as might be found on an LCD or electronic device. He checked behind in case it was some hidden message from a previous tenant written on the wall, but it was only on the mirror. Or just behind the mirror. Astonishingly it was in Dafnese, and Jal's heart leaped as he began to read. Then he realised the leap was off a cliff as he comprehended what it said.
"There is nothing you can do in this cell that I cannot observe. I will use this mirror to deliver instructions for your eyes only. Your cell mate cannot read them, and will not see them. Failure to observably comply with these instructions will lead to penalties, including but not limited to sleep deprivation, food stoppages, light deprivation, water rationing and manipulation of climate controls to unfavourable extremes. You will be reminded of your instructions here every day. Ignorance will be treated as non-compliance.
Food will be served at precisely 0800, 1300 and 1900. Collect it from the shelving behind, where you retrieved your clothing from. Laundry to be replaced can be left in these units.
Completion of tasks will lead to expanded facilities and luxuries. Your first task is to foster trust in your cell mate, and in so doing, myself.
- Vizier-General Midas Hakimi"
Jal instinctively looked up, searching for a camera or something he could express his outrage to. But there was only the indestructible white polymer with its keyhole camera apertures and sealed-grate speakers and water channels. The nightmare was real, there was no escaping it, and this was his life until he could figure a way out somehow. As he fought down the rising frustration and panic, he noted two gems of information. Firstly, he could mark time by when the meals were delivered. Second, his adversary had given up a name. That was unusual. Normally you would never risk a captive having a name to remember you by.
But this was no ordinary jail, and that meant neither of the occupants were ordinary prisoners. Jal felt a shred of hope in knowing that eventually, their options would diversify as the enemy's aims became clear through the instructions he was expected to obey. If he could keep himself sane, and keep his cell-mate from killing him in a fit of rage, eventually an opening would show itself.
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Looks like Jal's hit the cellmate jackpot!
I'm enjoying your work, hope this story gets more attention!
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It's great to see that you are continuing this awesome story. I'm looking forward to the following parts.
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<thanks for your supportive comments guys, it does me the world of good. I have to remind myself that I'm writing a complete fantasy, and as its so niche I sometimes fear people will be like...what the hell is this guy smoking.
Anyways. This ones a bit of a rollercoaster as I need to move the plot along.>
His first offering was the pressed clothing from the laundry shelf. He tentatively set the clothing down on the table in front of her, causing her to look up angrily. She inspected the clothes like an animal pawing at carrion, assessing whether it was suitable or not. She discarded most of the garments and squeezed into a sports bra and shorts in drab grey, sparing not a second thought for Jal who diplomatically averted his gaze. The other garments were strewn where they lay, unfolded and unwanted.
He decided that he had better not fall into the habit of bringing his cellmate their clothes and dinner, in case she mistook him for some kind of butler. His next offering was privacy and space. There was no escaping the close confines of their incarceration, but he did his best to keep a distance from the woman who, for all he knew, had endured horrors when she was taken captive. She seemed to regard him as a harmless bystander - as a person might ignore a fleeing squirrel on their morning jog. Several times their gaze met, and Jal tried to smile cordially, but the statuesque brunette simply scowled and returned to her brooding. Quite what she was thinking so hard about, the commando wasn't sure he wanted to know, but eventually boredom overtook him and he dared to approach.
What followed was the longest game of charades he had ever played or heard of. He started by pointing at himself and saying his name clearly, "Jal", and then gesturing exaggeratedly for her to do the same. After a wary glare, a surprisingly gentle voice mumbled something that sounded like "Minowa-May".
"Minowa?" Jal repeated carefully. The girl shook her head. "May?" He pressed on. She shook again and he wasn't sure what he had pronounced wrong. She seemed upset and frowned, not at him. Then abruptly she pointed at him and said his name.
"Jal."
"That's me!" he nodded cheerfully, but couldn't think how next to break the ice. The language barrier made it hard to be funny. She smiled back at him and pointed at the chair opposite expectantly. When the soldier sat, assuming it was an invitation to join her at the table, she smirked and shook her head, rising from her own chair and pointing at it. She pointed at him and said his name again, then pointed at the chair.
"It's a chair, what do you want me to do with it?"
She shook her head and tried again, holding up one finger and pointing at the chair with the other. Jal looked from her intense, amused gaze to her hand and the chair.
"Chair?" He said, hopefully.
"Chair" she repeated, pointing at the furniture. Then she pointed at the table, and Jal understood with astonished delight. It had never occurred to him to try and learn her vocabulary in such a simple way, and that was exactly what she was doing with his. They went through the items in the room, covered its dimensions such as walls, floor and ceiling, and then their game became more abstract as they moved on to body parts and nouns.
He had expected to have an uphill battle and a scary time trying to live around this woman, who's anger seemed to match her muscles. But her transition through even this convoluted dialogue was remarkable. It was hard to put the brute hammering at the walls in the same head as the playful woman who now held out a handful of her hair for him to name. She was laughing as though she didn't know when she might next get the chance, and Jal realised he was doing the same.
They were interrupted by a short, jarring chime across the intercom. The soldier expected to hear the mechanical voice of the Vizier-General again, telling them they were having too much fun or some such, but there was nothing more. The room filled with the smell of food, but before Jal could indicate where to collect from the girl seemed to follow the scent. He had expected her to take both plates or otherwise assert herself here, but although he had purposefully fallen behind she stopped and gestured for him to take his plate first. He realised he'd already branded the woman a barbarian on account of her unbridled rage, but here was courtesy and civility such as might be found anywhere else.
Dinner was substantially better than the paltry rice bowl in the previous cell. This was curried chicken with flat loaves and mushrooms tossed in rice. There was a pitcher of delicious fruit juice and a yoghurt for dessert. They continued their game of point-and-name with the items on the table - their cutlery, which was made of flimsy plastic, their plates which were metal, the pitcher and glasses, and the items comprising the meal. She seemed adamant on learning Dafnese, rather than trying to teach him her own language, although he did try to put things back on his cellmate. He found that the words bore little resemblance to any of the several languages he had studied, and found it hard to recall their pronunciation. Meanwhile, the brunette seemed to hear a thing once and be able to lock it in place, excitedly repeating it as if to show what a good student she was.
Eventually they tired of their game and sat in contented silence for a time. The woman studied Jal and touched the stiff cast on his arm. "Arm." She declared, correctly.
"Yes." Jal nodded, recalling the ease with which he had been bested by the sadistic jailor. The girl showed him her closed fist.
"Arm?" she inquired.
"No," Jal laughed as he thought of a rhyme. "Hand."
"No hand!" she insisted, but her keen dark eyes and generous mouth were playful. She pointed emphatically at the scuffs on her hand. The commando comprehended with a sigh.
"Hurt." He pronounced carefully.
Her hand ran the length of the rigid sleeve. "Hurt." she repeated dutifully.
Jal picked up his plastic fork and broke it in half, laying the pieces on the table. "Broken." He declared, feeling the admission on a fundamental level. The snap startled his cellmate who looked from the fragments to him, to his arm, and then her hand closed around his.
It was a surreal moment, washed away in a tumult of defeated shame and apprehensive foreboding. Yesterday, or maybe longer ago, he had assumed he would be tortured to death. Now he was trapped in an impregnable box with a strange beauty who learned quickly and had a physical prowess he had never seen in a woman, at once both muscular and curvy. He had feared he was trapped with a wild terror from her monstrous rage, but here was her gentle touch on his hand and a look in her eyes that he felt himself plummeting into. In this of all places, here was tenderness.
He felt the need to dispel the aura of stunned silence, so he laid his hand atop hers and smiled. "Friend." he said. She repeated the word with a laugh, and he caught himself wondering how such a lovely face contained the exponential aggression he had seen earlier. Jal returned the eating utensils and trays to their place on the shelf, noting that although there must be a hatch of some sort there it was completely invisible.
When he returned to the room she ambushed him. One powerful hand pulled him off balance while she ducked and caught him across her shoulders. But instead of throwing him over or crashing him to the ground, she proceeded to squat him with a giggle. His noises of alarm and confusion caused her to mutter something in a soothing tone, and Jal consigned himself to the fact that he was now being used as a weight in her workout. Despite the awkward resting place across her broad shoulders, she was hardly bony, and when she passed her thirtieth squat with him he realised he should settle in for a long haul. He found himself wondering when she would tire, but the moment never seemed to arrive. He lost count at a hundred and fifty something. For many minutes after she continued, perspiring a little and breathing audibly but not exactly tiring or breathless. When she set him down carefully he staggered as the blood returned to his extremities, and she giggled again and held him close for support.
"Just who in the hell are you, miss?"
She cocked her head at him, he was talking too agitatedly for her to follow, but then she swept him up in her arms and proceeded to press him overhead, which was considerably less comfortable even though her grip on him was steady. After a couple of dozen repetitions his protestations caused her to drop him into a cradle where she could curl him. She seemed to watch him as she did so, as if checking for further signs of complaint. He wasn't counting this time as the motions made him dizzy and the involuntary rigidity at being manhandled had caused his injured limbs to ache something fierce. She set him down at last and he reeled, causing her arm to shoot out and collect him to her again. He groaned, wondering whether he was dreaming and about to wake up to another round of torture instead of this unusual experience.
Instead she talked to him softly in her language, leading him by both hands away from the corner and into the centre of the room. There she lay on the floor, tugging for him to follow, and when he hesitated she shook her head and pulled behind his knees so that he dropped suddenly astride her belly. By now his loins were beginning to feel a certain anticipation and he felt acutely awkward, both in close proximity to her, and in the knowledge that they were being observed. The girl brought her knees up behind him and then pushed up from the floor with her hands and feet, bucking him into the air as her glues and abdominals took his weight up with them. She then proceeded to dip in this position, raising and lowering her pelvis with his full weight. The sudden motion caused him to grab hold of her waist for balance, which elicited yet another playful snort of laughter. He felt her firm body move beneath his hands and found himself beginning to enjoy the sensation of being in her power, now undeniably erect. He wasn't even sure she was doing it to exercise, as again it seemed to cause her little discomfort or strain.
Past a hundred reps of this, he opened his eyes to find with a bolt of horror that she was watching him. Her eyes were on his member and when they met his, he felt sure she would throw him off. But she grinned, lowered her butt to the ground, and sat upright so that her body folded around him, knees propping him up while her arms pushed her face level with his chest. He felt her heavy breasts brush against him and the gaze of those dark eyes was unfaltering and sultry. She very deliberately placed a finger on the top of the bulge in his pyjamas, smiling as he shuddered in uncomfortable apprehension.
"Hand?" She inquired quietly.
Jal felt as if he was in the eye of a storm of conflicting emotions all vying for priority. He wasn't even sure how to decline, but the prevailing feeling in his mind was that it was not only inappropriate to enjoy this, but it could be unfair too. He had no idea whether this woman even understood why she was here or for what purpose, or if she knew they were being monitored. She doubtlessly comprehended his attraction to her, but the speed with which she had progressed from hostility to intimacy was breathtaking. After a lengthy pause, tortured by her curious caressing of his cock, he took a dry gulp and took her hand gently away. "Friend." He said, carefully. "Maybe later."
She frowned in confusion, then rolled onto her belly, almost toppling him over. She looked back for him and tapped her shoulders, fishing for his hands to guide them when he hesitated. Jal assumed she wanted them rubbed and began to do so, but although she made a pleasurable noise she shrugged him off and then pushed up from the ground. He was forced to lean his weight onto her to keep his own balance. This position was not kind to his arousal either, but it was comfortable enough that he almost drifted off as she pressed their combined weight off the floor over and over again.
Jal had never gotten involved with anyone before. The army was his life, as it was for many Dafnese soldiers, but unlike the rank and file his work as a commando rather precluded the formation of relationships and, by and large, the thought had always struck him as a bad idea. No one would be willing to tolerate his absences with the barest of explanations for long, and meanwhile he could certainly live without the doubts about what might be going on while he was deep behind enemy lines, or the potential for enemies to discover his dependents and use or retaliate against them. So it had been for the eight years of his adult life. Now he was experiencing his first moment of intimacy in the strangest of circumstances, aroused by a scenario he never imagined, with a woman he had known for less than a day and could barely communicate with.
As he became comfortable with her rhythm, his thoughts drifted to the mechanical voice watching them omnisciently. He had assumed "gaining trust" would take far, far longer, but a moment ago he almost had a sexual encounter and she seemed as comfortable around him as anyone, possibly more so if her curiosity was anything to go by. So what was the end game for their captors?
She shifted beneath him suddenly and brought her knees up to perch on her haunches. She carefully guided his arms around her neck and hitched hers beneath his legs and proceeded to rise and fall on her knees. Her strength and endurance were inhuman, there was no doubt. He didn't know anyone who could do bodyweight reps of this intensity or duration, let alone with the additional weight of another person in tow. It was clear this woman was a subject of some fascination for the Larinthians, judging both by the Vizier-General and the Jailor's reaction to her. No one seemed to give a shit about his military value as a captive. In fact, it was as if the High Value Target he and his men gave their lives to kill was barely missed or noticed. That dejecting thought was dwarfed in significance by the uneasy question of why he was being kept alive - and further, entreated to enhanced lodging with this strange but fantastic woman. He glimpsed a shadow of an idea about what was going on here, but there was still too much hidden to make it clear.
He had all but dozed off by the time she rose stiffly, still carrying him on her back, and strode toward the bed. Sitting them both down on it she turned to look at him with a smirk. Then without a word or a gesture, she started to undress. Jal sat upright at the end of the bed and averted his eyes, only peripherally glimpsing her glistening skin. He stood and crossed to the chairs and table, and sat down there.
"I'll sleep here. You can have the bed."
She looked bemused, and for a moment he feared her mood would wax wrathful. Her expression seemed to waver between irritation and worry. Jal rested his head on his arms and closed his eyes, hoping she would get the picture. But after a few moments he heard her bare feet on the floor and felt a hand sliding under his knees. Then he was in her arms, and he looked up at her and wondered why he ever contemplated resisting this. She blinked patiently at him, and took him back to the bed.
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Great work. I'm looking forward to the next part.
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Each of these story lines are well written and thoughtfully played out........can't wait for the next chapter, KARMA++ to you
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Interesting flow. We are going from something your started at a young age, and how you got better with time. Keep it up, the story is showing growth.
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Loved the new relationship, I love it that she's showing off her strengths and taking control of things. Can't wait for her to break them out of the cell and rips the Vizier General's mechanical appendages one by one :D
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<I feel odd writing this, but every time I think I'm going way off the deep end with it you guys have dropped really supportive comments. I'm glad you're enjoying it. I've worked out a tentative new rhythm and figure I can add a post every couple of weeks or so for the time being. My inspiration comes and goes unfortunately but lockdown is leaving me with more time to get bits done.>
It wasn't the easiest night's sleep he had ever had, but it was enjoyable. Her easy might controlled him utterly, but her only demand seemed to be that his hands be on her body somewhere at all times. She responded to his apprehension gently, each stroke of a hand across his body and each squeeze of her arms around him inviting him to reciprocate. It took every shred of willpower to refrain from accepting her ultimate offering, which he eventually managed by blithely snuggling into her chest and pretending to fall asleep. If his aversion annoyed her then, she did not show it.
* * * * *
He awoke alone in the bed, and rising reluctantly, saw that she was already exerting herself again on the floor, one-handed pushups into the dozens. He ruffled her hair as he crossed the floor to the bathroom. As he brushed his teeth he reminded himself he was a prisoner, with a pang of resentment that felt uninvited after last night. Had it only been one day? The mirror, as if hearing his thoughts, displayed bright blue writing for him to read;
"Excellent work obeying your last instructions. By my calculations you have achieved trust faster than 97.2% of previous experimental couplings. Unsure if this speaks to your capacity for social manipulation, or your cellmate's protective instincts. We will explore this in our next assignment.
Your task is to achieve the following:
i) perform an action that is self-harmful so her response can be observed.
ii) Demonstrate control over the amazon in the following ways:
Convince - altering her course of action from what she has decided to do using reason to make a stronger case for your own course of action.
Command - Order her to do something in a manner that leaves no ambiguity as to your authority.
Suggest - Appeal to her priorities to change her course of action.
Threaten - compel her to act through force or distinct implication of consequence.
Breakfast is served. I look forward to collecting more data from you.
- Midas"
Jal's mouth dropped as he struggled to comprehend the supposed instructions. Not only were they perverse and contrary to their wellbeing, but he didn't rate his chances of exerting any kind of 'control' over his cellmate even if he felt inclined to oblige their captors' whims.
Shaking his head, Jal proceeded to ignore the instructions for the whole day. They resumed their language exchange, naughtier now owing to the fast familiarity they were acquiring about one another's bodies. He quickly realised she did not take kindly to being called "minnowa-may", which is what he thought she had said when they painstakingly exchanged names the previous day. He was sure he was repeating what he had heard her say, so determined this wasn't a name but something that couldn't be explained by pointing at things. Whenever she fancied a break from their piecemeal conversations, she would excitedly lead him to the open floor and proceed to workout some more, a different range of motion each time. He couldn't decide if she was showing off to him, or had some kind of compulsion, or perhaps it was simply the only way she knew to pass the time here. She seemed to enjoy the fact that it aroused him, but displayed a disciplined focus on her meticulous form and unbelievable repetitions.
Jal carefully tried some exercise of his own but quickly realised his limbs were still fragile and not fully healed yet. He found himself contemplating the instructions and trying to guess what the enemy were after. The Jailor had exclaimed something about a 'Sacred Bond'...and from that he could infer they were examining the relationships between whatever people this powerful woman hailed from, and others. Why wouldn't they just use their own personnel though? Why go through all the rigmarole of getting other prisoners to do it? Were the Larinthians really so arrogant and sadistic that they simply chose to exert this kind of control? Yes, he answered himself, for they were a slave-taking and brutal conqueror. It was entirely possible this was all just the Fabricator-General's weird fantasy, and that his fate had changed hands from the Jailor to the homunculus on his walking pedestal. All the more reason to ignore them and see what happens.
By dinner time his nameless cellmate had realised how the meals were served through an automated hatch and poised, waiting to interfere with it when it opened. She managed to delay, but not prevent it from closing, but the confined space and awkward angle made it impossible to properly gain leverage. It was only after she had smashed her hands ineffectually onto the shelving in a fit of frustration that he realised she had been gritting her teeth through electrocution. Strands of her hair stood on end, giving her breathless, snarling form an ethereal quality while her muscles glistened from the dew of her exertions. Jal cautiously took her hand in his and led her away from there, noting with a pang of elation how she calmed to his touch and gaze.
There was no dinner forthcoming after that, and she seemed guilty about it for the rest of their day, throwing herself into more exercise and this time eschewing his company until he tapped her on the shoulder and jerked his head towards the bed. Somehow they managed without words a conversation that needed to be had about their situation and how she needn't feel bad about trying to get out of this place. It was a dialogue of touches and kisses. This time she fell asleep resting her head on his chest, and Jal did not sleep for a long time as he contemplated what would come of this development and his silent campaign of resistance.
The following day there was another message on the mirror: "Further attempts to interfere with your confines will be met with escalating measures. No food will be served until you complete the assignment given to you yesterday, as follows..." Wherein the message repeated the previous instructions.
It wasn't the prospect of hunger that set Jal's mind unsteady about his course. Between lunch and dinner he realised that his cellmate had no idea that the food stoppage was his fault, not hers. He watched her attacking herself in her workouts, until the sweat was dripping and her recovery came in desperate, shuddering breaths. She wouldn't meet his eye. Yet how to explain? He interrupted her twice to try and gesticulate and charade what was going on, but she only recognised that he was trying to say *something* about food and that seemed to make her mood worse as she kissed his hands and returned to her flagellation on the floor.
The commando thought about the perverse instructions the mirror had given about the different methods of control he had to demonstrate, and with an incredulous smirk an idea came to him.
Taking a deep breath, he walked past her so that she would be conscious of him at the edge of her vision and clapped his hands sharply.
The sudden sound made her look up from her planking. He raised his hand, palm flat towards the ceiling, for her to rise. She did so. Then he jerked his head toward the bathroom and started walking, breathing a silent sigh of relief to hear her follow. He crossed to the shower, opened it and switched it on, then took off his shirt. The amazon looked from him, to the shower, then back again and her lips parted as if to say something but then he was motioning for her to undress as he was. Jal braved the confusion to start lifting her top and she let him, raising her arms and letting him pull the damp garment over her head. Her brown hair clung to the moisture on her neck and shoulders as her proud breasts settled into their new freedom.
Jal's heart was racing. He had expected this powerhouse to object, to kick against him, to refuse and resist. He realised with mounting excitement that she was obliging him as he took off his trousers and she her shorts. Then they were naked, facing each other, and she held his gaze waiting for his next instruction. He looked toward the shower and she led him by the hand, leading him onto her, and underneath the hot spray they fell upon one another as the famished to a feast.
A range of conflicting emotions ran through Jal's mind, but all were overpowered by the wonderful sensation of being lifted up against her body, of her eager, excited kisses and her crushing strength around his waist. There was so much wrong about their situation, not least that they were under observation, but somehow his desire and her power overcame even these bottomless doubts. She suspended him not only physically, but emotionally, pushing him through the mental barriers and onto uncharted, unexplored possibilities he had been denying. His had been a spartan life of deprivation and discipline, and now in the space of a few short days, and here a few short minutes, everything he knew about himself was being ripped asunder by an amazon.
Perhaps it was his control that had brought this about, but he didn't feel like he was in control as she positioned him between her legs, still holding his full weight in her arms. With her hands around his buttocks she eased him in while he made the fine corrections, and then he was clinging to her shoulders for dear life as they both found a rhythm and hammered away. Their skin was slippery and though he felt as though he was losing his grip on her, she held him fast to her body and finally he let himself rely totally on her strength and leaned back in utter ecstasy as she crammed him into herself again and again. Her short, gutteral breaths became audible grunts and stifled moans while he struggled to stay focused. Jal forced himself to remember some of the meditative discipline he had learned to resist torture, just barely keeping from escaping the build up. She had to enjoy this. She deserved to. Her noises had become a near-continuous murmur of ecstasy as she exerted herself beneath and around and above him. Her eyes were closed and her face was enraptured but her balance remained totally secure and then she suddenly gasped and shook all over. Her shuddering finally got the best of Jal and he let himself go, writhing in her grip as they came together.
She let herself lean his weight against the wall of the shower cubicle and then laughed breathlessly. His injured limbs ached. He kissed her lips, her head, her neck. Still she refused to put him down, until his feet had pins and needles and her head rested on his shoulder. Then she carefully let him escape, and they washed each other, giggling.
It was a long shower. When they emerged, dinner had been served through the hatch along with fresh towels. Jal snorted scornfully, and they accepted their captors' hospitality and ate in contented silence. Whatever had just happened, it seemed to have satisfied the conditions of his assignment, and this only added weight to his suspicion that the Vizier General was nothing more than a voyeur.
After the satisfaction of sex subsided, Jal felt pangs of guilt gnawing at him as he lay in bed with the amazon ,cuddling. His earlier inhibitions about taking advantage of this situation, about adding to the littany of wrongs that had engulfed this woman, all of that had gone out of the window now. What did that make him? And the knowledge that this...whatever it was, this closeness, this connection, was approved of by the enemy gave him a sense of tremendous unease.
What were they looking for? If they had seen fit to reward them by reinstating the food schedule, did that mean he had done as he was asked and exerted control over his beautiful cellmate? What about the rest of his assignment? As much as his limbs ached after the sex he very much doubted it counted as a self-harming act. An idea occurred to him about that part of the instructions and he decided to sleep on that idea rather than the cloying doubts.
* * * * * * * * * * *
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Thanks for a terrible Monday at work Mach. I started this story way too late and lost too much sleep because I just had to finish it. Cannot wait for the next installment!
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Yet another great chapter. Excellent work.
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Another great chapter, I love the development and style, your craft is amazing.......please keep going, Karma to you!!