Operation Big Boy

The golden bells atop McMurdo Hall filled the open desert skies with a joyous clamour that licked the clouds and floated down through the thin, hot air to resonate amidst the ears of the broken and battered recruits filing slowly out of the wide double doors. The well-deserved and freshly pinned decorations adorning their lapels proudly displayed their status, the end of their strife and their strength. The rays of the distant suns beamed with all their might to bless each and every individual iron crossbones that passed through the threshold with an emblazoned gleam which, in those few split seconds, rendered the worn, rough metal dazzling platinum.

Above the baking sands, eager eyes watched the brave and weathered new flock of Drop-men emerging from the historied Hall, from the observation deck of the command structure.

‘Fewer every year,’ Base-Boss Wallace spat, softly.

‘Always has been. Be fewer next year to,’ Droner grumbled, in a flat observation exhibiting neither agreement nor denial.

Spectris raised a finger with aim to the herd of fresh Drop-men below.

‘That’s him.’

Base-Boss Wallace followed the finger’s sights to a square jawed and dark-eyed young man, slowly shuffling through the doors. The man looked sturdy, composed, determined, yet no different to the others around him. Base-Boss Wallace bit his lip.

‘If you say so.’

Droner let out a short, snorting laugh. The vocal filter in the visor of his helmet deactivated, his gruff and raspy voice was undisguised, if not tinged with static.

‘Only one way to find out.’

The road to being a fully-fledged Drop-man had been long and gruelling. For three years, Mearl Burton had suffered through unending mental stress and physical strain while cooking under the glaring, suffocating heat of three suns. He had shed blood, sweat and fear in this endless desert, forcing himself to dig deeper from the well of his willpower than he ever thought possible to survive and crawl towards the distant victory he had dreamt of for years. The test drove him, Mearl knew he had what it took to be a hero, and he wanted to prove it, to himself, and to the memories and haunting voices of those who doubted him.

Now that he had, the sense of fulfilment and purpose he felt burning in his heart filled him with such elation that the physical pain filling his catastrophically exhausted extremities fell silent to its presence. Mearl fell into his cot, finally permitted time for recovery and relaxation, his vindication ahead of him.

Visions of what his future would entail as a member of the most elite, secretive and legendary fighting force in the known galaxies crossed before Mearl’s lowered eyelids as he fell into a cautious sleep, blissfully unaware that as he slipped away to the bubbling dark of his dreams, his future was marching towards his tent with rapid pace and grand intentions.

‘WAKE UP, DROP-MAN!’  Base-Boss Wallace bellowed.

Mearl shot out of his cot like a torpedo, straightening up before the fearsome ruler of Camp Fortitude, bleary eyed and still beguiled in the sandman’s haze.

Base-Boss Wallace stared into Mearl’s eyes, considering him heavily from behind a wide jaw, before stepping abruptly aside and drawing the tent-flap open for his acquaintances. Spectris and Droner entered, bringing with them an unwanted surprise in the chill that ran down Mearl’s spine.

Base-Boss Wallace, while an imposing and powerful figure, was vastly overshadowed by the presence of these two mythical figures. Z-team were the top of the pyramid. Esoteric, godlike beings among Drop-men. Their stories were carried in whispers throughout the galaxies like fairytales, recited in the fleeting moments of silence and calm on battlefields across known existence to inspire hope, courage, fear among those fortunate enough to listen.

Mearl thought he was dreaming until he felt the prickling of curiosity and excitement in his skin. The gnarled and scarred combat suits they wore showed glaringly the survival capacity of each Droperative’s frightening frame. The black visors of their helmets obscured their faces from the world, but Mearl felt like he could feel their eyes scanning his very soul.

Spectris turned their enshrouded head to face the silent Base-Boss.

‘We’ll take it from here, Boss.’

Base-Boss Wallace looked down his chin at Mearl, silently nodding, before, in a never previously hinted-at moment of approval or camaraderie, flashed him a sharp wink. The tent flapped closed behind him briskly after, leaving Mearl uncomfortably alone with his surveyors.

Sweat gathered on Mearl’s short, buzzed hairline. He had done no wrong, he felt no fear of conscience, he was confident that he had passed the psychological evaluations and screenings he had been rigorously submitted to in his time here categorically. Even still, such a visit came once in a lifetime, if ever. Mearl couldn’t help but feel apprehensive that he had found himself face to face with the upper echelons on the very day of his graduation. The silence hanging heavily in the tent lasted far too long. Mearl knew they were hoping he would crack under the pressure of their scrutiny, they wanted something from him. He could see no other reason for this unconventional intimidation. As though they could read his mind, a crackling, breathy snort of air came from Spectris’s visor.

‘Big day, kid?’ The masked voice, spoke at last.

Mearl nodded, unsure when the tests would end, if they ever did. He just needed a decent sleep, as soon as possible.

‘Yes, sir.’

Droner reached a cold, hard, armoured hand out and clapped it down on Mearl’s bulky, solid shoulder.

‘Congratulations, young man. Welcome to the fuckin’ drop.’

The adrenaline surging through Mearl’s system had blown his important thoughts of sleep into the stratosphere. His apprehension felt both justified, yet insignificant, besides the swell of his ambition and his honour, his rage.

Broiling light from the suns, diminished by the green-hued, anti-glare coating of the command towers large, bay windows, washed through in thick yellow-brown shafts that danced, alive with particles, over the huge console in the centre of the room. The sounds of revelry and celebration knocked lightly on the outside of the thick glass like ghosts in the wind, the music in the mouths and hearts of the proud graduates below was likely to carry on long into the night.

The music in Mearl’s heart as he looked, dry-mouthed at the images digitally displayed on the console before him, could not find the beat. It skipped and jumped, kicking out awkwardly into his sandpaper-lined throat. He hadn’t laid his eyes on the festering, rabid monstrosities depicted before him since he was a child. Mearl knew this was no coincidence, everyone else in the room must also have known this. Mearl didn’t think he was in this situation because the universe was so small, but because it was so vast.

When Mearl had been led to the battle-centre of the command structure by the two Z-team Droperatives, Mearl couldn’t find his voice. He had wanted to ask why now, why him, but his spirit was in shock. As they had walked, Droner had assured him all would be revealed within the secured privacy of the command tower, that Mearl had no reason to be worried.

‘What do you know about this…filth, young man?’ Droner asked, gesturing, almost reluctantly, at the dead, oozing, black, contortions of teeth, tendrils and terror in various states of decay and totality in the images displayed on the console.

They disgusted Mearl at a physiological level. The wet, oily gleam of their vile, jagged forms twisted his stomach and brought a prickling sweat to his skin, an acidic tinge to his palette. It sparked a deep, needling obsession in the dark recesses of his mind.

‘Void wraiths. Known by different names throughout the galaxies, fringe-demons, Kollicas, The Dark Horde. Class-five threat, incredibly dangerous and hostile to all life. Unknown in terms of composition, origin or genealogy. We don’t know how they travel or survive outside the rim. People speculate that they may be inter-dimensional or meta-physical in nature, representing a form of life we currently do not understand or have the means to examine and research. It is unclear how and why they leave the void, though when they do, the results are usually…this.’

Mearl had applied himself to all facets of training during his gauntlet here. He understood that the mind is one of the most reliable weapons in any arsenal, using it, he had devoured the lessons on strategy, moral duty and biology just as hungrily as he had devoured lessons in history, enemy, combat and intelligence. There were a multitude of skills and awarenesses required to truly be the justice and light Mearl sought to be in the vast, dark, galaxies. He had poured every fibre of his body and soul into honing their prowess over the last three years. The shock of the situation had worn off and now Mearl could see that the fact of whether it was fate, coincidence or collusion that had placed him here so quickly was irrelevant. He simply was.

Know your enemy.

Droner seemed satisfied with the textbook-regurgitation provided for the beasts, though Spectris had watched on in silence. They were finished with the charade.

‘How did you survive?’ 

Mearl was prepared for the shift. There had only been four known void-wraith attacks in his lifetime. He had thought it highly unlikely this situation was irrelevant to the fact he was one of three survivors of those four attacks. The other two, an old man named Johist Kinn of Plutra Magoric, and an adolescent female Centaurion named Illoti, now of a travelling circus currently somewhere in the Tubhar Belt, also still stared to the stars in fear and wonder, on nights they felt themselves to be unobserved.

‘I hid’ Mearl said, without shame or hesitation. ‘I was five.’

Droner and Spectris were silent for a few long moments before Droner once again, briefly clapped a solid hand on Mearl’s bare shoulder, taking it off to join Spectris by the window.

‘Why am I here?’ Mearl asked.

The faces concealed behind the darkened visors turned simultaneously to their left. Mearl could hear the distant roar of a descending ship, but he couldn’t see its source from where he stood.

Droner turned to face Mearl once more.

‘Patience, young man. Our commander would like a word with you. He’s came a long way to see you, so be fuckin’ polite. Feel special.’

Mearl felt the breath leave his body but stood strong. His racing heart could barely contain the disbelief, the excitement. He couldn’t stop thinking about how some Drop-men would go their entire lives without ever meeting a Droperative from Z-team, never-mind the fabled commander of the mysterious battalion.

When the doors to the battle-centre slid open, three towering figures filled the doorway. Mearl had never seen armour like that of the Z-team Droperatives. All Drop-men must surrender their name, face, creed and person to The Drop. The highly engineered black combat suits provided uniform anonymity and superior combat defences, becoming a new skin on which the history of their deeds is written in service, adorned with honours for valour and accomplishment.  A Droperatives armour becomes as their soul, the capabilities and presentation of which was to each of them their own right and freedom. Mearl tried not to gawk at the intricacies of their decorations as they approached, but from the level of reinforcement, upgrade and repair visible on the suits themselves he could ascertain these Droperatives had hunted far and wide. The seals, trophies, medals and engravings etched or welded onto their collective torsos spanned lifetimes of warfare.

Mearl stood to attention.

‘At ease, Drop-man,’ The Kraken boomed through his visor.  ‘It’s an honour to have you among our ranks, Son. Congratulations.’

Mearl found it hard to relax. He was thinking a million miles a minute, reaching for the stars.

‘Thank you for being here, I’m sure you’re itching to get down there and celebrate, aren’t you?’ The Kraken continued.

There was a pause before Mearl managed to push out the words.

‘No, Sir.’

The Kraken took a few seconds to glance around the room, into the visors of his troops.

‘Why not, Son?’  The Kraken asked.

Mearl fought the urge to squirm in place.

‘I’m ready to go, Sir. I want to get out there.’

Chuckles and quiet huffs of amusement came from the visors of the Droperatives assembled around the battle-centre.

The Kraken nodded, knowingly.

‘Patience is a virtue; inaction is a torture. Do you know why we’re here, Son?’

‘No, Sir.’

The Kraken ushered Mearl towards the seats at the command console in the centre of the room with an open palmed gesture. The Z-team commander, the two Droperatives that entered with him, Mearl and Droner all took places in seats surrounding the large console. Spectris was deeply engaged with a small handheld device with an embedded screen, that Mearl did not recognise, while intermittently scanning the view out the window of the tower.

Mearl couldn’t see them, but he knew all eyes and attentions were on him. This was another test, somehow.

‘Why did you want to be a Drop-man, Mearl Burton?’ The Kraken asked. His voice was strong and confident, his tone warm and open.

Mearl had answered this question a hundred times, to himself, to instructors, to the night skies.

‘I want to make a difference. I want to help people’ Mearl said.

The Kraken raised his chin at Droner, who in turn looked to his wrist and the device integrated upon it and punched in a sequence of commands. Documents and images stacked in folders rapidly sorted themselves into place on the surface of the console. Mearl tried to read what he could as they flashed by, only being able to spot the deep red demarcation of ‘classified’ among the shifting blurs as they skimmed passed. A folder cracked open and spilled its contents. The first to be enlarged, was a photo that made Mearl’s skin crawl. Goosebumps rippled across his bare torso as he realised, he was looking at a picture of himself, though he was not the main subject.

Hundreds of people gathered in the photo, it was taken from above, the photographer looking down on the smiling and elated faces of the gathered crowd, party-poppers in hand, champagne glasses glinting in the light of the fireworks bursting over the dome above.

It was the Launch Day celebration of 3414. Hundreds of humans from the Star-web Mining Armada had gathered under the bio-dome of a colony on the moon Kestro-6 to rejoice and usher in another year of prosperity and goodwill throughout the galaxy.  None of the smiling, hopeful faces visible in the photo would survive the coming hours.

Mearl’s eyes lingered too long. His expression must have darkened.

‘You want to make sure this never happens again, don’t you?’ The Kraken asked, his voice low.

Mearl swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.

The Kraken once more lifted his chin at Droner. The photo on the screen shifted, being replaced by a video.  A blindingly bright, white room, sat on the other side of an observation window, in the focus of the footage. Mearl could see blotches and smears of thick, tar-like slime slashed and splattered cross the pristine white surface in places. He knew what was coming next. His stomach tightened, his jaw clenched. Suddenly, a writhing black mass of roaring, gurgling, screeching sharp tendrils and flashing claws smashed violently against the window, before whirling and throwing itself in a fitful rage. Loud, snapping whip-like cracks and guttural, blood-curdling alien chittering reverberated through the containment pod as the void-wraith crashed into every surface. The footage cut to black.

‘So do we.’

The Kraken rose from his seat, placing his hands carefully behind his back. 

‘You can make that difference, Son.’

Mearl’s excitement and thirst began to slip away.

‘I don’t see how, Sir. Anything I knew about these things, what they were like…I told the Galactic Council at the time. I didn’t see anything’ Mearl said.  He couldn’t help them. Mearl felt deflated. A few moments ago, he thought he might be on the verge of walking right into Z-team, now he was thinking they just wanted him for information he couldn’t give them.

The Kraken studied Mearl for a few seconds before slowly strolling towards the windows and looking out into the purple of the setting suns. Spectris joined his side, device still at work, in hand.

‘What if that doesn’t matter?  The Kraken asked, lingering on the sunsets for a few seconds more before turning to face Mearl.

‘What if we knew more about these things than anyone? What if we’ve found a way to really hurt these things, maybe even finish them off?’ The Kraken asked.

Impossible.  

Mearl felt blood rush to his cheeks. What could that mean?  How could that be?

‘How, sir?’

Spectris snapped shut the device in their hand and walked briskly out of the battle-centre.

‘This rodeo is for real cowboys only, Son. If you’re interested, you leave with us, right now. If you’re not, we wish you the best of luck in your future as a Drop-man’ The Kraken said, the warmth had left his voice, he was firm and serious with his offer.

Mearl had to find out more. He needed to know what they knew, how they knew it.

‘Sir, I haven’t been drafted yet.  I have yet to surrender to The Drop.’

‘We can take care of that, son. Now, do you accept my offer of deployment?’

The doors slid closed behind Mearl and the two Droperatives that had entered with The Kraken. Droner rose from the command console, turning to face his commander.

‘Bit risky, wasn’t it?’

‘I wanted to know’ The Kraken said, defeatedly.

‘On this day, we forever surrender Mearl Burton to The Drop, may his name fade to nothing, his voice fade to time. We send his body to glory, and his everlasting spirit to feed the flames of truth, light and justice, evermore.’

Mearl held the heavy, metal footlocker containing his entire worldly life with outstretched arms, over the open incinerator chute in front of him.

‘The sacrifice made today will be seen by few, remembered not, yet will forever strengthen the balance of harmony in both this world, and the next.’

Mearl’s hands trembled, both from the strain of exertion and the weight of this moment.  He fought back tears. This wasn’t how he imagined it would be, though it may still prove better than he could have ever conjured.

‘Farewell, Mearl Burton. May you one day live a thousand years more, in the peace your spirit manifests’ The Kraken finished.

Mearl let go of the footlocker. It fell quickly, without sound, into the arcing plasma below.

‘Rise, Drop-man.’

A reborn warrior, anointed by command and the loss of self, rose confidently to his feet on the clean grey steel of the Z-fleet vessel. Where there was once a man, there was now an eternal symbol of good, a weapon of light. An unkillable notion. In the lower decks of the starship Trojan, bathed in the warm glow of the reactors, the scales in the endless battle between good and evil shifted, ever so slightly.

The fabrication suite of the starship Trojan whirred and hummed, abuzz with energy that coursed through the mechanisms and digitized systems in waves of pulsing, vibrant blue light. The workings of the automated fabrication enclosure worked with rapid pace and precision, hissing hydraulics and rhythmic fusion in chorus led to a crescendo, before trilling away into nothing. the chamber doors seal released with a pop, allowing the lid to slide smoothly open and reveal the fruits of the fabricator’s labours.

The X-15 combat suit. The idol of righteousness and security throughout the universe. An awe-inspiring, fear-inducing testament to the marvels of technology, the great equalizer.

There was no greater life support system in existence, though its aim was not immortality, that was reserved or available to no-one.

What is your name, Drop-man? The Kraken boomed.

‘Lyre’ came the breathless voice, through the crisp, fresh visor.

Lyre felt new, powerful, but incomplete. The weight on their shoulders had not been lifted; their shoulders had simply become reinforced. In the small, stark steel cabin, the notions of who they were and their destiny, did not dissipate. They weighed heavily upon deaf ears.  Lyre let their mind wander.

The war-deck doors slid open to reveal Droner, Spectris and The Kraken huddled around a large screen. The trio dispersed around the centre console, looking the new Droperative up and down. Droner quickly keyed a command into the device on his wrist, killing the screen.

There was a palpable tension among the Z-team veterans. Lyre felt it was their turn to be apprehensive, that it must feel intimidating to let a fresh face into such classified and hallowed grounds. He had not yet earned their trust. Though it went unsaid, Lyre knew there were aspects of this situation that were still being closely guarded.

The video of the void-wraith from earlier that day was once more on-screen, though it had been paused and left to hang in the air in the background while The Kraken caught Lyre up to speed with their mission.

‘That brings us to Illoti, the most recent survivor’ The Kraken tapped his fingers to the table and an image of her slid into view. She looked exactly as Lyre remembered, pale blue scales, wide jade eyes, but older, thinner, lost.

‘Did you two ever meet?’ The Kraken asked.

‘No’ Lyre answered. ‘I read about her, thought about seeking her out, but never did. The last I heard of her, she was a circus performer, somewhere in the Tubhar Belt.’

The Kraken once more tapped his fingers on the console, the picture vanished. After a few seconds, it was replaced with a video feed. A live broadcast from somewhere on the outskirts of the universe, Lyre could see the thick, black, broiling waves raging in the distance, the writhing black mass on the edge of the known universe.

‘The void. Around here, we know it as dark space. Until recently, it was believed to be impenetrable.’

Lyre was waiting on every word.

‘What changed?’ He asked.

Spectris spoke before The Kraken could answer.

‘Everything’ they said, approaching the console and tapping in a command.

A series of large images slid onto the screen.  Lyre recognised the large machine in the photos as a Geist propeller, but quite unlike any of the simulators he had been trained with on Camp Fortitude. The machine wasn’t unlike an enormous chrome cannon, entangled in intricate webs of wires and pipes, coolants and propulsion regents. gears, cogs and capacitors. The model in the pictures looked strange, modified. There were elements that looked too disorganised or haphazardly applied to be standard. Geist propellers were a fiercely guarded technology, exclusively in use by the Drop-men. They could transport resources, materials, equipment or weapons billions of light years in the blink of an eye, or they can be used as a weapon themselves. The results of a direct hit from a warhead loaded into a Geist propeller are devastating, reserved only for the direst of circumstances.

‘A Geist?’ Lyre asked, trying to sound incredulous instead of excited.

‘Not the average Geist’ Spectris said.

‘We can use it to punch through’ The Kraken interrupted.

Lyre and Spectris both snapped their necks towards The Kraken.

Lyre couldn’t believe his ears. His fists balled.

‘How?’

Spectris cut back in.

‘We don’t have time to catch you up on years of proprietary research and development. We can, that’s what matters here. For the first time’ they said, looking back at The Kraken.

‘What does this have to do with me?’  Lyre asked.

‘Nothing’ The Kraken said, turning his attention from the screen, still frozen in the background.

‘You came to us’ He continued, drawing closer to the console.

‘Of all the things you could have done with your life, you chose to become a Drop-man’ The Kraken continued, searching for something on the console.

‘Don’t you want your own back? Isn’t that why you’re here?’ The Kraken asked, visor to visor above the console with Lyre.

Lyre nodded.

The Kraken looked down and keyed a password into the console. A loud beep gave way to a flood of images. Three filled the screen.  Along with the words ‘top secret’ watermarked faintly in red across the image, they all bore the same plain text in clear white margins at the top of each image.

‘ZC-130 – Project ‘Big-Boy’

As Lyre’s eyes took in the shining, metal weapon of mass destruction before him he started to piece together their plot. The hulking figure’s outline, a simile of the X-15 combat suit, its proportions enlarged to accommodate a pilot, stood in the centre of a hangar. Lyre had seen images of mechs like these in his training, though the X-20 had been taken out of use, it was believed to be too savage, the slaughter it wrought thought to be undignified in its brutality. Much like the Geist machine shown previously, the X-20 showed signs of unusual modification. A huge, barrel-shaped container had been attached the back of the mech.

‘Then get you some, Drop-man.’

Lyre scoffed.

‘Sir, with all due respect, I don’t understand. You want me to get into that thing, then be fired out of a Geist propeller, into the void?’ Lyre said, ire building in him. it surely couldn’t be that simple. The Kraken was talking as though they were doing menial pest-control, rather than experimenting with foolish ideas and entities beyond their understanding.

‘Yup. That about sums it up, Son. I would understand, if it’s not for you. If you’ve made your peace with what happened back then, and what might happen again, that’s fine.’

Lyre felt confliction, anger. 

‘I went through three years of hell to get here. I didn’t go through all that to be sent on a suicidal experiment on day one, commander, respectfully’ Lyre said bluntly and stood up from the console.

‘Then what did you go through it all for, huh?’ Droner piped up.

‘I understand’ The Kraken said loudly.

‘I see your position, Son. I do’ The Kraken said and raised a hand to his ear. 

‘Cyclops, turn this ship around, Camp Fortitude, double time.’

Lyre’s heart sunk. He thought he had been on the right path. In his impatience and eagerness, he had wasted his own time, perhaps even dashed his own future success.

There must be another way.

‘Well, Son, no hard feelings. We thought we’d offer you the chance first, thought you’d have held a grudge. You’ll be re-entered into the draft when you get back to Camp Fortitude, best of luck. Dismissed’ The Kraken said with a wave, turning his back on the deflated Lyre.

Lyre paused, stumbling for thought, before realising if not him, it would just be someone else. What if it worked?

Do not play their game.

If he walked away now, he may never get the chance to board this ship, or any other Z-fleet vessel again, but he may also die instantly, wasting everything he had worked for, his best chance.

The Kraken seemed to sense Lyre’s hesitation and twisted his head back to face him.

‘Dismissed, Drop-man.’

‘I’ll do it, Sir’ Lyre said.

‘Why?’ The Kraken asked sternly, turning to face Lyre.

‘Because you’re right. It’s why I’m here. It’s my duty, my honour. I just thought I would have more time’ Lyre admitted.

The Kraken raised his hand to his ear.

‘Cyclops, cancel that, take us to the Shoot-house.’

Spectris and Droner exchanged a fleeting glance. 

‘It might not be suicide, you know’ Droner said.

‘We told you; it’s not your average Geist.’

Lyre’s cogs began turning again. It couldn’t be possible.

‘It can bring me back? From where?’ Lyre asked, his voice growing louder, more demanding.

‘Anywhere, theoretically’ Droner said.

‘Although, not inside that old big-boy, it can’t. He’s a one-way trip’ Droner added.

Lyre could see the obvious conclusion, but it shouldn’t be possible. He couldn’t accept it. All of this information and capability was useless, unless they knew where to aim.

‘Where are you sending me?’ Lyre asked, certain he was misunderstanding something crucial.

The Droperatives held a long silence, before the war-deck rung sharply with a loud beep, followed by a strobing green flash.

‘We’re going to hit them where it hurts, Son. We found them’ The Kraken barked. His energy had soared.  The war-deck shook bracingly as Trojan landed. Things had sped up. The Kraken raised his hand to his ear to relay more orders.

‘Operation Big-Boy is green, I want the Geist chambered and the mech locked and loaded in eight minutes.’

Lyre couldn’t think straight. His eyes were taking it in, but his brain was just looping the information to no end. He couldn’t process what he was looking at, or how he could be looking at it.

‘We’ve been tracking it for years’ The Kraken said, disdain dripping from his visor.

Across an array of monitors in the hangar, floating ominously in tides of writhing darkness, was the dark heart of the void.

Lyre’s legs would have failed him, if not for his new armour. He felt the throbbing of his temples even under its regulatory maintenance.  He stared, speechless at the black mass. He felt bare, small and weak.

‘Strap him in’ The Kraken bellowed.

The engineers calibrating the mech suit around Lyre secured the straps being lowered from above, locking them in and checking them twice.  All that was left to be done was lift the mech into the Geist propeller, and launch. The Kraken, Droner and Spectris all assembled in front of the mech.  The decision to work while they talked had been made, The Kraken was eager to commence. There was no backing out of it now.

‘Lever on the left will spit you out, once you hit the ground, pull the lever on the control panel on the back, when that pops open, you punch 3414 into the keypad, and you’ve got twelve minutes to get yourself back into the Geist pod before it gets ripped out of there without you, sounds straightforward, no?’ Droner said.

It did, on paper it was flawless.

‘The Geist can only take you so far, you need to plant that mech as close to the one of the poles as possible. We have no idea what to expect, so expect the worst.’

Lyre closed his eyes inside his helmet, trying to quell the anxiety bubbling inside him.

The crane began hauling the mech upwards.

‘You’ll remember that code, won’t you, Son?’ The Kraken asked.

‘Yes, Sir’ Lyre replied, eyes still held shut, chest heaving. A few seconds later he felt the bumping and jostling of the mech hitting the bottom of the Geist propeller.

Lyre never opened his eyes before he felt the shockwave. A ripple of reality-bending energy crashed through every atom contained within the Geist propeller in a brief few seconds of the worst, most primal upheaval and discombobulation Lyre had ever felt, before there was a world shaking boom  and Lyre realised he was whole again, on solid ground, though he felt as if he had been squeezed through a mesh of black holes. The life support monitors in his visor flashed critically, blaring a klaxon in his ears. Lyre tried to lift his swooning neck, but it made him feel violently ill. He felt out of control and clumsy in the mech, crumpled and uncoordinated in the dark. His vital support systems kicked in, administering a cocktail of stimulants and suppressants to Lyre’s central nervous system. Grace and balance returned to Lyre, and he managed his way to the door of the Geist chamber, hitting the release to make it slide open.

Outside, Lyre fell to his knees. He scanned the surface around him, seeing black sand blowing through broken moonlight, gathering in dunes. Jagged, brittle, black rocks jutted from the haunting landscape like broken teeth. The broken shards of others piled into mounds. Lyre checked his communication system to find nothing but static.

He turned his eyes to the sky, but it told him nothing other than that there were moons hidden out there in the void. There was no time to waste.

Lyre cast his eye for any of the many winding, dark tunnels that snaked through the core of the cursed rock, spotting one a short distance away in the sands.

Lyre knew he would inevitably have to confront the horde, but he still dreaded the approaching moment with every step. He could not see how this would go; he had no guidance at this crucial time. His fears were cemented, when he reached the mouth of the tunnel and heard the maddening chitter of the dark ones inside echoing over the howling winds. Lyre readied the minigun on his arm, swallowed his hesitation, and approached.

The horde had heard him, and were scrambling towards the surface, he could hear them steadily drawing closer, angrier.

Lyre retreated a good distance from the mouth of the cave and prepared himself for whatever was to come next.  When an eruption of the horrific, undulating monstrosities came tearing from the mouth of the tunnel, they landed in the sand between the tunnel and Lyre. He stared at them, in awe and disgust. The creatures seemed to stare back, for a few short moments, before all at once they pounced towards him.  Lyre threw himself into a roll, hitting the sand with an enormous bang and bouncing to his feet. One of their tendrils had wrapped itself around the leg of the mech, it’s razor like hooked claw peeling thin, deep, curled strips of titanium from the armour as though it was peeling an apple.

Lyre swung his left arm, clenching his fist and severing the tendril with a short, superheated slice of plasma from the mechs knuckles. The creature squealed and slunk back into the tunnel while Lyre opened fire with the minigun attached to the right arm of the mech.

The other void-wraiths couldn’t escape the flood of plasma slugs unleashed upon them.

They squealed and hissed like percolating kettles as Lyre shredded them with unrelenting fire. When they lay in thin, wet puddles on the ground, Lyre launched himself into the tunnel.

The fall was much deeper than he had accounted for, his carelessness costing him his footing, he flew towards the inner chambers of the dark heart in free-fall, crushing and dragging streams of flailing void-wraiths with him.

Hurtling downwards through the ear-piercing clamour of the countless void-wraiths, Lyre felt at peace. He was so close. He watched as the thoughtless, gore-hungry tools of darkness rabidly attacked and throttled his protective shell as it fell, almost weightlessly, into the abyss below.

The shockwave when hitting the bottom reverberated through the entire heart but still paled in comparison to the physiological trauma of the Geist propeller.  Within seconds of composing himself Lyre could hear the insurmountable forces descending upon him, every inch of every surface moved and shifted in the darkness around him. Lyre jumped to his feet, slashing and swinging in every direction, trying to see through the wall off shifting aggressors for a sign.  In the end, he did not need one.

Silence began to fall, the pulling, slashing and slamming he felt from all angles dropped steadily in frequency until it ceased, the void-wraiths around him began to back away, slowly melting into the ground and the shadows of the core.

‘Who dares, enter this place?’

The croaking, raspy voice seemed to come from everywhere, all at once.

Lyre was overcome with fear, dread, amazement, and regret all in one bittersweet range. He tore into place the lever to release him from the mech. The second the seal on his cockpit broke he felt the presence flooding in. The loud, hissing, consuming voice gasped.

‘You! How!?’

Lyre lifted his head, to see the ancient and fossilised throne, fused into the black glass, bathed in an unnatural light from the holes in the surface high above. It looked just as it did in the dreams.

He barely had time to observe the frail, shambling figure, approaching out of the darkness in front of him before he felt the iron claws dig into his mind. Scraping, pulling and prying, harvesting every moment. Lyre’s body locked, his mind jarred, until the skeletal husk released him in disgust.

‘FOOL!  WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?  you fool!’   The croaking, withered husk cried weakly, it’s glistening, blood red eyes boring holes into Lyre’s Visor, repeating the insult until its breath drew ragged and its thin legs buckled beneath it.

Lyre tried to show his master he had done well, that he had brought him his salvation, his freedom, at last. Lyre pushed his plan into the front of his mind and begged him to hear it, to listen.

The Dark Being seethed, condemning Lyre for his ignorance, his naivety.

‘No!’ Lyre roared, ‘I have come to save you, Master.’

As though a cruel and devious God had heard the words from Lyre’s mouth, the chamber strapped to the back of the mech began to sound a loud klaxon.

‘You are a failure; your selfishness and impatience have doomed us both.’ 

Lyre threw himself at the mech and tore the chamber door from its hinges. The timer had already started, six minutes ago.   

‘No! it is not too late!’ Lyre screamed, forcing the image of the Geist chamber into his mind. Lyre scooped up the fragile, rigid being. The Dark One poured hate into Lyre’s mind but understood that he had no choice.  Black sludge pooled around Lyre’s feet, gripping them tightly before firing him into the air like a rocket, a black needle spearing him upwards towards the surface at breakneck speeds. When he crowned the core and landed heavily in the black sands Lyre hit the ground running. He clutched The Dark One preciously, sprinting with all his might towards the Geist chamber in the distance.

He was so close, he would deliver his master from this hell.

Lyre finally reached the chamber, only to realise the door had resealed itself.  Lyre frantically jabbed at the console with a trembling finger. The door would not open. Lyre jammed the button as hard as he could, and the door slid open, to reveal a wall of solid metal, with a timer, approaching its last minute.

The Dark One stared into Lyre’s soul, pouring unbearable levels of pain, hatred and suffering into his heart and soul for his grim mistake. As Lyre fell to his knees, a loud crackling exploded into life in his helmet.

‘Welcome to the fuckin’ drop, old man.’

As the closing seconds of the timer passed into zero and the blast of two anti-matter accelerated hyper-bombs shredded the dark heart of the void, along with the foul entity contained there into non-existence, the scales in the endless battle of good and evil were shifted, ever so slightly, back into place.

‘Do you think he knew it was her?’ Droner asked.

Spectris took a long pause before their reply.

‘I don’t know. He couldn’t have known about the circus, he was on Camp Fortitude by the time she left Merkerrin, but his activity was normal, besides the external influence she barely registered. If he did know, he just didn’t care.’

Droner shrugged.

‘I really thought we’d end up just killing him. I’m glad he was so gullible.’

‘Evil and arrogance come hand in hand, son’ The Kraken said solemnly, before pulling the lever on the containment room door and incinerating the last surviving dark one in a roaring blaze of white flames.