Chapter 57: Chapter 50: A Counterplay to a Counterplay

The burst from Piam’s SMG exploded the back of a Normie thug’s head, and the man fell face down, his brain spilling onto the stone. Hryhorij fired at the Orais, and the massive thug shook and growled in pain as a series of crimson dots appeared on his forearm and his helmet cracked.

Hryhorij shouldered Piam to the side as a wall of flame rolled toward them, engulfing the unfinished elevator. The two agents rolled to safety from the fiery hell that reddened the metal beams and melted them in places. Before Piam could get to her feet, Hryhorij had already landed a shot into the knee of the remaining Normie thug.

The woman wailed, and the Orais grabbed her and Raffy. The New Breed’s helmet cracked, revealing a face with deep-set eyes and a flat nose. A tap sent another wall of flame racing toward the agents, and then the Orais jumped. His back slammed into the ceiling, hammering out a path on the floor above for the escapees to take refuge. Piam didn’t fire, too worried that her bullets would ricochet off the falling debris and accidentally kill Raffy. The setback was irrelevant; the provincial army…

She stopped, frowning. Three life signs went black. But how? Civilian-grade shotguns wielded by the rabble at the entrance should not be able to penetrate the soldiers’ armor! Her partner stiffened, concerned by the same question, but the years of training snapped them out of their confusion.

Ultimately, it changed nothing; Raffy still wouldn’t escape. The flames devoured light bulbs, exploding them and melting parts of the floor. Only the bright lights of the window and dying fires kept the room lit, and Piam hesitated. Slaves continued to dance on the other side; she could see burly men and women sitting behind tables, partying and paying little attention to the chaos. Should they fire at the leader and his living throne? The Investigation Bureau did not shy away from collateral damage, but neither did they encourage unnecessary casualties. There were more factors to consider. What would happen if their bullets connected with the spatial anomaly?

A figure stopped their worries. A black-haired woman in a green trench coat filled the window and stepped into the underground parking lot. Gunfire met her, spearing her clavicles and knees. The agents fired, intending to incapacitate her and taking her into custody for further interrogation.

A moment later, they switched to the lethal fire, and the woman didn’t even halt her steps. The fabric of her leather trench coat and pants absorbed the bullets, sinking them beneath the surface as if the bullets had hit water. As the woman raised her hand, her fingers spread wide. The flesh flowed back into the sleeve, and the bone structure changed, accompanied by a loud crack as the finger bones joined together to form a bone fan to block the bullets aimed at her face.

“I recommend immediate surrender,” the intruder said in a calm tone. “It is the only way I can guarantee your survival.”

Piam and Hryhorij didn’t panic. They had seen stranger things. Their hands grabbed black cylinders from their belts and mounted them on the barrels of the SMGs. Iterna’s military favored modular weapons, transforming a short-range shotgun into a long-range rifle in the midst of battle, or unleashing searing flames to overcome regeneration. The Reclamation Army’s modular weapons were cruder and less effective in many areas, but when the agents heard the clicks, they squeezed the triggers.

A burst of sound, potent enough to explode eyes, struck the assailant, followed by the hiss of an electric streak that forced her to twist and contort in pain. A network of bloody veins spread behind the New Breed’s irises, and then her head turned quickly to focus her gaze on the agents. Her leg stepped into the pool of blood left by the first goon, and the crimson flowed up her boot, soaking the leg.

Not soaking. Being absorbed. Piam gulped as the remains of brain, muscle, skin, and even bone disappeared into the leg. The woman’s legs splintered into six needle-like appendages, her torso stretched so that her upper body could mount the centipede’s lower half. She scampered out of their sight, ignoring bursts of sound and forks of electricity.

Piam elbowed Hryhorij back, screaming in pain, as a bone scythe cleaved across her shoulder. The incredibly sharp edge bisected through her suit and cut away a round slice of her flesh, narrowly missing the humerus. Blood, her blood, was trailing after the scythe into which the woman’s arm twisted, clinging to the bone, and Piam sprang away, fleeing from the six legs that descended, confused by the lack of pain in her shoulder.

Wires of flesh connected her gaping wound to the transformed woman. Barely visible, these wires spread a soothing, numbing sensation that almost bucked her legs. Biting her tongue, Piam pressed a button that disconnected the sound emitter from her SMG. Then she fired at her own wound, screaming in agony as her bone cracked, and ran, free from the strange confinement as the bone scythe slammed into the floor.

This woman’s speed was incredible! Accelerated by the combat drugs and amplified by the lenses of the artificial eye and the suit, Piam failed to detect the New Breed’s movements. It was as if she disappeared from reality and reappeared in another place, perfectly poised to strike. Only the stone explosions left in the transformer’s wake proved she wasn’t teleporting.

Hryhorij rose, but before he could fire, a flick of the wrist sent the bone fan into his weapon. The spinning ring of bone had cut through the center of the SMG. Hryhorij dropped the weapon and drew his knife, glancing briefly at Piam. She was the one closer to the exit, and he lunged at the New Breed, trying to stall the opponent.

She didn’t nod. She sprinted toward the exit, intent on warning the soldiers and alerting the command. The instructors mercilessly drilled the need for sacrifice into their minds. No agent was irreplaceable. Death in the field, though uncommon in modern times, was an eventually they all had to live with. She’ll mourn her friend later.

Piam had almost reached the road leading to the third floor when she encountered several soldiers of the Provincial Army coming down, fully clad in their dark camouflage armor. The bleeding agent was about to scream in warning when a shot struck her in the chest, knocking her backward.

A shot that came from her allies. She slammed into the ground, ignoring even the pain in her punctured lung. Another shot hit her right in the middle of her body and her legs went cold.

“Greetings, greetings, my dear friend,” laughed the man on the other side of the window. Neither the shooting nor the battle made him leave the throne. “Ignore the mess; we had a minor interruption.”

“This is what you get for involving laymen,” the officer in charge said. The heavy boot slammed into Piam’s chest, right into her wound, and she tried in vain to arch her back. But it wasn’t the realization that she was paralyzed that made her eyes widen. She knew that voice.

If the rot had reached so high… I need to crawl out; I must warn the Bureau. In her panic, Piam attempted to use all the emergency channels within her suit, but the system indicated that they were jammed.

“Is everyone on board?” the voice from the fog asked mockingly. “No complications, I hope?”

“Not anymore,” the officer replied. “Raffy and his rats are on the run. I doubt they’ll dare meet you again, so tell me what message I should give them. What do you need to destroy the Reclamation Army?”

“Destroy?” the speaker asked. “My friend, you misunderstand us! We seek to conquer, not destroy. There will be certain amounts of ruin and some not-insignificant murders, but we do not seek to desolate the land we intend to rule over. Is this acceptable to you, or should we amend the terms of our cooperation?” The voice dropped low, and Piam heard the tapping of bone needles against the stone as the New Breed approached, carrying the pierced Hryhorij on her bone-scythe arm. “I would hate to mislead your expectations.”

“I am satisfied with our deal,” the officer stated.

“Are you certain?”

“As long as they pay for what they’ve done to my homeland. As long as the Second and Devourer perish in the war, as long as the Reclamation Army is unable to destroy another country, and as long as the Dynast is dragged from his capital and flogged to death for everyone to see and laugh…” the officer stopped and aimed the energy pistol at Piam’s head. “Our goals are aligned.”

“T-t-tra…” Piam tried to say.

“There is no need to kill her,” the New Breed said. “I can safely contain…”

The officer snapped, “Death and fall to the Reclamation Army,” and a bright blast shaved off the top of Piam’s head.

****

Hryhorij should have been dead. He awoke to find himself impaled on the bone blade. He craned his neck, calmly seeing that it entered his body lower than his left hip, and the blade’s tip exited his body around his right shoulder. The heart, the digestive tract, parts of the intestines, the spine, the liver... He should be dead.

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But there was no pain—not even irritation—as she carried him on a bone tail that connected to her spine. Aside from that, the woman regained her humanoid shape and her fake trench coat. He breathed normally even if his lungs felt weird, and when the agent opened his mouth to ask a question, no sound left his lips. His limbs were unresponsive.

They were on the other side of the spatial window. He didn’t know Piam’s fate, but judging by the calmness around his captor, she didn’t make it. Hryhorij calmed himself. Even if the ambush failed and the soldiers were all killed, Houstad would be alerted. His diligent partner ensured it by passing the message to the soldiers prior to the battle. And there was no way for forty soldiers to disappear unnoticed.

He focused on the tent, burning the images of the feasting people into his memory. They bore a striking resemblance to the burly bastards who had attacked Just Peachy earlier. Some were more muscular, but the girth and protective fat were unmistakable. He noticed the slaves. While many of them were Normies and mutants, there were women of the same build as the invaders, dancing and delivering food to their masters.

“You promised me free access to the people of Houstad.” The female New Breed who had captured him stopped before the swirling narcotic mists. The agent was surprised to hear her speaking in the Common. “How do you plan to deliver it if you hand the city over to Raffy?”

“Trace, don’t be silly,” the person answered in a pleasant baritone. “Raffy is a cowardly plague rodent. A pest to be unleashed to wreak havoc. His role is to help us cripple Houstad’s official leadership while he weakens the illegal one. And when the dust of our conquest settles, yours truly will decide who will rule Houstad and its riches. We are people of vision…”

“Your cheap manipulations won’t work on me,” Trace replied. The music stopped, and the dancers froze in place. No one was pouring drinks or scraping meat off bones. Every eye in the tent was focused on the woman. Hands moved to weapons on belts; armored guards stepped inside; and the slaves retreated. But the woman stood undaunted.

“Careful, my dear.” A crustacean pincer broke through the wall of smoke and closed around the slender neck. Black chitin carapace covered the entire limb, aside from the sharp edges. Trace didn’t move to dodge, but the coat on her shoulders bulged, and two bone spikes formed, pointing into the mist. “You are the Khatun’s curiosity. But interest tends to wane over time, and you are alone with no one by your side. Learn the virtue of silence, lest you want to alienate your trusted ally.”

“I’ll keep it in mind when I meet one,” Trace replied. “We are conspirators, not allies, Brood Lord. Go ahead, close the pincer, explain the insult to Mad Hatter, and also try to find another infiltrator. Or stop wasting my time and act like an adult.”

Hryhorij fully expected to see the woman’s head roll. He was still unsure of who was hiding in the fumes, but the light tremble that passed over the hardened bone gave him a clue about the infuriation that was overtaking the speaker. Whoever this Brood Lord might be, the agent had concluded that he expected obedience and delighted in manipulating his servants, raising and lowering them as he deemed appropriate. Trace took it from him.

The pincer retracted. A snap followed, and the music resumed. The guests feasted anew, attended by the women, and the guards left the hall as if nothing had happened.

“Right you are, my friend!” Six legs emerged from the smoke—six massive columns covered by chitin so thickly that even their joints were shielded by scutes. They touched the ground, and the slaves who made up the throne breathed a sigh of relief as the owner rose to his feet, lifting his four-armed body over Trace. “Let’s drink, eat, and forget these sour words! Trace is a welcomed guest of Brood Lord and his khaganate! Bring airag, bring wine, bring vodka, carry in thunder bull legs, grapes, and apples; my guest is hungry!”

Hryhorij held on to the last thought as something was throwing him into a state of unconsciousness. Brood Lord wasn’t like the attackers. There were obvious similarities—belly and chubbiness—but he was undoubtedly a Malformed.

****

The agent opened his eyes, finding himself lying on an examination table in a cramped room. Glass containers stood everywhere, holding floating organs. These containers filled every corner of this brightly lit place, every shelf and every bench. The nutrient solution was light green and semi-transparent, indicating that the organs were well preserved and belonged to humans of various sizes and origins. Here were the compound eyes of an Insectone, an oversized Troll’s lungs, a Normie’s heart.

Hryhorij tried to stand up, panicking at the realization of what this entailed for him. But his body refused to listen. He couldn’t even move a finger. His eyelids worked, and after an immense effort, he moved his neck, wondering about a wide, already healed scar that covered his shoulder. How long have I been here?

“Two hours.” He heard Trace’s voice. The woman sat close to the entrance, holding a vial containing gray fibers and typing into a terminal. “Relax. Breathe clearly. Your damaged vital organs were restored. The Bio-Tinkers don’t kill their prisoners.”

“Now here’s a laugh.” Hryhorij forced a smile. “They just buy organs and slaves to cut them up and kill them. Nothing evil, sure…”

The agent was completely naked, and his vision was slightly blurred. It took him several seconds to realize that he no longer had his artificial eye. The device itself and the socket were gone, and in their place he now had another eye, simple and normal. He blinked twice, incredulous at such a quick implantation, and recognized the disassembled artificial eye lying on a table nearby. The tracking device inside it was broken.

“We do not kill our patients.” Trace turned on her stool and understood that it originated from her pelvis. “It is not our fault that raiders and slavers murder their prisoners to deliver valuable organs to us. It would be a waste not to buy the organs and let them spoil. As for living prisoners, we purchase and release the oldest, examine and collect samples from the curious, and educate the youngest to become adepts. We hold very few geniuses against their will for the betterment of everyone.”

“What category am I in?” Hryhorij asked. “Clearly not the oldest, so I guess I count as a genius?”

“You are a curious type,” Trace corrected him. They weren’t in the tent anymore; the walls of this place were made of solid steel. Not a single surgical instrument was in sight. “We’ve never examined a person born in the Core Lands. It is time to rectify it. My condolences about your friend.”

“Why did the Bio-Tinkers choose to become enemies of the Reclamation Army?” He ignored a pang of sadness when Piam’s death was confirmed. She would want him to honor her memory and remain professional. “Last I checked, you had a beef with the Oathtakers.”

“We have no enemies.” Trace stood up. The stool broke, gathered itself, and disappeared into the fabric of her slightly moving coat. “We don’t even wish to kill anyone. Those who oppose us are ignorant of our true purpose. To seek humanity’s salvation through artificial evolution. A perfection of flesh and mind for humanity, regardless of race or mutation. It is the Oathtakers who foolishly force us to breed war creatures, misguidedly perceiving our noble work as evil. Once our task is complete, we shall be vindicated.”

“Eradicated, you mean.” Hryhorij nodded toward the containers. “How many people did you kill to gather this collection of horrors?”

“Zero.” Trace cracked her neck and spread her arms. “I have treated hundreds of patients here; the Gilded Horde had abused some to the brink of death, while others were merely captives. None were crippled; none died. They were given adequate replacements and freedom.”

“And how many families have you torn apart to secure interesting mutations? How many children were kidnapped on your orders, their families shot by the slavers?” Hryhorij asked dryly.

“Too many,” the bio-tinker admitted. “I will not lie or shirk responsibility. Nor will I be judged by you, Reclaimer. The Extinction wiped out countless cultures and civilizations, and now your war machine is doing the same, molding everyone into a monolith to serve the ever-growing expansion led by your emperor.”

“The Dynast offers home and prosperity to the desolated Wastes; his will reigns in cruel tyrannies,” Hryhorij recited a memorized mantra. “Why weep over lost cultures? It is the people who matter. Let traditions, art, and languages disappear if it means that no child will go hungry and be eaten alive. In time, people will create new culture and art.”

“And what about those who simply wanted to live their lives? Will these people thank you for conquering them, I wonder?”

“A strange question coming from someone who works with the slavers.” Hryhorij scowled. “The bitterness and sadness of the individuals are irrelevant. The few must sacrifice for the many.”

Trace laughed in a clear and melodious tone, “Child. The cruelty and atrocities committed by our nations are despicable, even if they are necessary. The Bio-Tinkers kidnap individuals, while the Reclamation Army steals entire countries. The differences between our countries are merely the end goal and the scope.”

“Lies. We provide a home and a future for everyone under our rule. You claim your prisoners are given freedom. How many of them survive the journey home? How many even find their way home? Don’t lump us together, criminal. The difference between our nations is that yours pursue an impossible ideal, hypocritically making excuses about serving the greater good while committing every crime imaginable,” Hryhorij snarled. “The Reclamation Army has a realistic end goal that benefits everyone, and we could achieve it sooner if people like you could overcome their illusions of grandeur.”

“This discussion is unproductive.”

Trace’s coat ballooned at her shoulders and arms, expanding and expanding, forming spheres. It took the agent a few moments to comprehend the merging of her skin and clothing before it finally dawned on him. The woman wore no clothes. She was fashioning her clothing out of her own body. Trace’s arms and spheres came apart, morphing into dozens of thin appendages that ended up in saws, pincers, scalpels, or flesh ropes holding grievous talons. Her bones reshaped, splintering into bone drills. The appendages and bones protruded smoothly from the altered coat.

“Once you cease to pose a threat to the Horde’s plans, we will release you. Would you like to endure your vivisection in a conscious or unconscious state?” A talon moved to Hryhorij’s neck, stopping over the vein. “It matters not; there is no threat to your life, nor will you experience pain. Any taken organs will be replaced. But some patients find it less stressful to sleep during the procedure.”

“Some?” Hryhorij asked weakly. “Awake. Answer me this before you start. Why side against us?”

“It doesn’t matter to us who will rule. Originally, the Conclave planned to use the Horde’s invasion to secure an important person. But after meeting Mad Hatter, we understood our short-sightedness. In this world, she is unbeatable, invincible,” Trace answered dispassionately. Her many limbs moved down, making incisions in his flesh. The woman’s neck lengthened, and her head hovered over the agents, like a snake over a hypnotized rabbit. “A quirk of evolution, mutation, or power gave her an unrivaled body. Left unchecked, she will first conquer the Reclamation Army, then the Oathtakers, and finally us. But once we unlock the secret of her biology and improve upon it, we will make humanity invincible. Slavery will be obsolete. No Extinction will ever threaten the creators.” The head leaned closer, and Hryhorij experienced a push and rubbing as his body was being pried open. “My apologies. I’m going to have to temporarily disable your vocal cords. The removal of your lungs will cause minor breathing difficulties.”