Deacon tapped a series of commands on the ship’s data screen, and various readouts began to pour into the display in his visor.

“That’s strange. There doesn’t appear to be anyone on watch tonight. Maybe they didn’t expect an air force?”

“Very strange,” one of the pilots replied. “This may be over quick.”

The massive metal gate that protected Abraxas’s walled inner sanctum began to open.

“Here they come!” Deacon shouted.

Mendraga began to file out of the opening, boots moving in lockstep, rifles held against their chests. Several of them separated out from the main group, remaining in the rear as they dropped to one knee. They placed cylindrical metal objects on their shoulders, and Deacon’s console glowed red.

“WARNING, EXPLOSIVE PROJECTILES DETECTED WITHIN RANGE,” said a stern feminine voice. “LOCK-ON DETECTED. INITIATING AUTO-EVASIVE MANEUVERING.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Deacon muttered, flipping the manual override switch.

“Deacon, get us out of here!” Maka shouted.

“Really? Is that what I’m supposed to do, Maka? Because I wasn’t sure if I should…”

The smoky contrails were visible even from the cockpit as the Mendraga launched their deadly payloads. The ship launched a series of countermeasures, but the circuitry inside the rockets appeared to be too sophisticated to be fooled by such rudimentary tactics. Deacon spun the nav spheres, and the warship groaned as it rolled and hurtled upward, boosters glowing white-hot as the ship reached maximum velocity. He pushed the ship higher and higher, the rockets still trailing.

“Boys! Follow me up!” Deacon shouted into the com. “This is going to get hairy!No pun intended,” he added, shooting a grin at Maka.

“They’re getting closer!” one of the Tarsi shouted, peering out a porthole in the hold.

“I got this,” Deacon said.

Oxygen masks dropped from hidden panels in the ceiling. Tarsi fumbled with them, finding that they weren’t designed to fit over their snouts.

The volley of rockets sputtered, their propellant exhausted, and began to fall back to the earth below. Deacon cut the boosters to the ship, and it followed suit.

“Get us close, but not so close this time,” Maka said.

“Again with the suggestions,” Deacon muttered. “Getcha there in a sec.”

The warbirds dropped in a metal V back toward the ground. Within moments, the Mendraga were again visible beneath them. The rocketeers, as Deacon had labeled them, had rejoined the other soldiers, apparently all out of rocket-propelled ammo.

“Guess they’re one-pump chumps, eh, Maka?” Deacon said, turning to Maka and hoping for a smile on the Tarsi’s face. Nothing. “Okay then, guy with the plan, what now?”

“We’ll take it from here,” Maka said. “Tarsi, prepare for attack! Make your forefathers proud!”

The Tarsi on board shouted in the affirmative.

“Tarsi! Ready?” Maka shouted.

They answered in their sonorous language, a chorus of harmonious roars.

Deacon opened up on the Mendraga below with the ship’s twin mounted cannons, grinding the front line to pulp. Deacon’s console lit up red again, and the cabin filled with the roar of rushing air.

“What the hell?” he shouted. Maka had engaged the deployment hatch, and Tarsi were dropping out of the hatch one by one. Deacon’s mind ground to a halt, struggling with the absurdity of it all.

No parachutes! his mind screamed.

He watched as the Tarsi barreled into the throng of confused Mendraga—rolling as they hit the ground, or using the bodies of their enemies to cushion their fall. The Mendraga’s fear overcame their discipline; many had scattered like ants under the withering fire, and the sudden introduction of Tarsi from above further broke their lines. Deacon watched as the Tarsi sent Mendraga rag-dolling through the air with furious swats of their great paws. The citizens brought up the rear, rolling over Mendraga in armored vehicles and grinding them to pulp from a distance with vehicle-mounted cannons.

Incessant warning lights and the ship computer’s smug voice seized his attention.

“LOCK-ON DETECTED.”

“Crap,” Deacon muttered.

He banked hard left, but it was too late. The ship rocked with the impact, sending a shower of sparks and detritus into the air. Deacon choked as an acrid smoke filled his lungs. He pulled the oxygen mask down over his face, and his lungs cried out with joy in response to the pristine air. Then he brought his ship up out of rocket range, learning his lesson: Never assume the bad guys are out of ammo.

“I’m hit, but it doesn’t seem too bad. I’m going to have to circle back around,” he said to his fellow pilots. “Take out those rocket launchers!”

“Affirmative. Targeting enemy rocket launchers,” another pilot said in a nonchalant voice. The inflection of his voice was no different than that of someone ordering coffee, or sharing an anecdote with a coworker.

“Very good,” Deacon said. “Let’s not forget to provide cover for friendly vehicles. Let’s push it forward.”

He had no formal military training, but he had played a few pre-exodus shooter games on his uCom in his day, and he was proud at the jargon that he was now able to employ. He never thought he would have an occasion to use it, but as he watched the Tarsi and Eursan warriors scramble beneath him, it was just like those games: detached from the bloodshed, the evisceration. Deacon circled around again, liquidating another row of unfortunate Mendraga with his cannon fire.

****

“If anyone resists, burn their filthy hovels to the ground,” said Overseer Zehn. The overseers began to close in, followed by the human conscripts. Hammerheads emerged from their huts, barking and gesturing toward the Mendraga.

“Go back to your homes. Anyone that chooses to fight will be killed. Dead.” Zehn emphasized the last word, hoping that if any of his words got through, it would be that one.

Amid the din of inane, grunting chatter, Zehn heard one word: “No.”

Zehn spun to face in the direction of this treasonous offense. “One last warning! Anyone that does not follow instructions will be shot. Your families will be shot. Do you understand?”

The head of the overseer standing right next to Zehn exploded in a spray of red mist. The rifle report arrived milliseconds later. Then there was more rifle fire, and Zehn’s overseers began to crumple around him. He saw a muzzle flash from a nearby building, then another. A bolt of searing pain speared his left shoulder.

“Kill them all!” he screamed.

That’s when a horde of Tarsi seemed to materialize from the very air. They were unlike anything he had ever seen. Mouths full of razor teeth, claws extending from their massive hands. They were huge. Where had these beasts come from?

The overseers began to fire, and a few of the Tarsi fell. Out of the corner of his eye, Zehn saw a blur heading in the wrong direction. Pulling his pistol, he ended the human conscript’s flight with a bullet to the back.

“Anyone who flees, dies! Do you hear me?” he shouted.

A worker charged him, brandishing an enormous steel wrench.

That thing must turn a really big bolt, Zehn thought. Thenthe man brought the wrench down on Zehn’s arm, crushing the bones to powder. Screaming, Zehn fired his pistol into the hammerhead’s skull, obliterating it.

Hammerheads were now emerging from every door and window, some of them brandishing pistols and rifles. Zehn looked on in horror as more Mendraga fell under their assault. Behind him, several overseers were attempting to clamber up the sides of the buildings where the riflemen were entrenched. In this untenable position, the Mendraga’s superior speed was of little advantage; rifle fire dropped them one by one.

“Idiots, use the stairs inside!” he snarled. Then he turned to the humans. “You conscripts, head up the stairs and provide support for the overseers scaling the building!”