The Dragon Commander (SkyLine 1)

Even the stabbing cold against Tim’s back, could only ground him for so long. His sight left him, for just a second. Then he saw a metal pike poke through the front of Morgan’s throat, just inches from him. Tim blacked out again. This time, when he came to, it was to watch DA-Vos wrench Chris from the path of a Fusion bolt. A spray of nanocomputers burst from his shoulder. Another red Squire slunk out from the space between two crates, to finish DA-Vos with a shot to the blackbox.

“MR. FINCH!” DA-Vos’ face burned ruby for the first time when his human partner leaped to take the shot. Finch’s holey body hadn’t yet hit the floor when DA-Vos raised two Fusion rifles to their remaining foes. In his blind fury, he focused the form of his chest into four more barrels. DA-Vos unleashed a storm counterpart to Chris’ gunfire. Despite the thunder and screams, the last ounces of will keeping Tim’s head upright slipped away.

When the shadows finally receded from his vision, the first thing Tim saw were his shoes. He watched a few tiny black particles float in a red pool between them. It took his

brain a moment to register that he wasn’t in his bed, in his apartment. In another, he realized what it was by his shoes. The nanocomputers of a slain Squire floated past him in blood. He swung his head around to Morgan sitting almost right against his shoulder, a red stain cascading from the hole in her uniform.

“You’re up,” said Chris. Tim’s face shot to him. A deep sear across his arm was the only sign of damage on the Major General. That, and his face. Chris’s skin had lost all pallor. His eyes were dull. He stood rigid, numb, amongst the mangled bodies of his friends. Tim tried to fix his eyes on Chris, but they wandered to the nearest sound.

“Mr. Finch…” DA-Vos murmured, azure face turned down on what was left of Robin Finch. Every last human officer of Precinct 117 was confirmed dead now. His remains were not much more than a half-cooked torso.

“Hey,” Chris called Tim’s eyes back to him. He knelt to grasp Tim’s shirt with hands caked in soot and blood. “Don’t look. Not at them. Only forward. You’re alive, so…” Chris’ voice quivered with his bottom lip, at the first wave of feeling, “So we both have a mission… that’s all we have now. Understand?” Tim’s dry lips peeled apart.

“Yes sir,” the sound that came out was hardly more than a squeal. Chris put him on his feet, and turned for the dark body of the last Squire in the warehouse.

“DA-Vos,” he said.

“I was worth… this? To you?” DA-Vos whispered to Finch’s remains.

“Hey,” Chris yanked DA-Vos around by the shoulder, “The same goes for you. Finch died for you. You owe it to him to stop this from happening to someone else. The mission. Understand?” Chris stared into DA-Vos’ blue face, waiting for a reaction. It was Tim, though, who woke from the trance first, with the realization,

“DA-Vos… your personality matrix. You have a choice. If I could link you to the other Squires through the FOS link station in the Precinct office…” A hint of light returned to Chris’ eyes.

“Can you get us there?” he said to DA-Vos.

“Yes,” said DA-Vos, though his blue-lit face remained on Finch. Chris’ hand found his cold, dark shoulder again, this time to shake him.

“My friends… would never forgive me if I froze up now,” said Chris. Now it was he who had to fix his eyes in one spot, away from the carnage.

“The mission?” said DA-Vos.

“The mission,” said Chris. He gave his dad’s revolver to Tim while DA-Vos got the shutters back up.

“The mission,” Tim whispered to himself, pistol shaking in his grip.

Chapter Eight: Links

“Chris?” Sheba called into the black. She groped through dark absolute enough to hurt her eyes, silence heavy enough to sting her ears. She felt only uneven, but solid ground beneath her. “Chris! Chris, please… are you here?” Sheba screamed. She froze at the sound of a far away whisper. She jerked her head at it, but there was only more darkness. Another voice whispered into her ear, as if from lips an inch away. Well, not lips, exactly. The sound of the language was so alien, it implied something other than a human mouth. Most of it was just noise..

“Keramba… ni dom kertaka shedreat het.”

“What? What in the hell are you saying?” Sheba tried to block it out with hands over her ears.

“Shish tresch graan,” she heard, clear as if the speaker was inside her ear. Overwhelmed, Sheba broke into a trot, hot streams down her cheeks.

“Chris! Anyone?” Sheba pleaded. Two yellow topazes gleamed through the black, sharp scaly ridges between them. Dark pupil slits narrowed on Sheba, frozen. “No…” she muttered. Her feet slid backwards.

“Yes…” came a voice through an orange puff of smoke from the beast’s snout. Sheba’s heel clipped a ledge, and she tumbled backwards. Nothing beneath her, she plummeted straight down.

“Machaeus…” Another hissing whisper ripped past on her way down. Sheba free-falled through an endless chute of crimson rock, lit by shimmering silver mineral veins. In the stone, countless scaly forms peeled free, yellow eyes burning. Thousands upon thousands of Dragons. They turned their heads down at Sheba as she fell, each with a different version of the same message.

“Machaeus… your function is complete,” said one.

“Wake us up, Machaeus.”

“It’s time.”

“Wake us, Machaeus!” the Dragon’s demanded.