A Last Prayer

The Great Hall of the Bellarius Monastery was usually a magnificent and peaceful place. Time was when many people would make the pilgrimage here, through sun, rain and even lashing snow. They would enter through the large oak doors, gazing around in awe at the high ceilings, the colourful glass windows, through which light would stream in multicoloured beams, and at the tapestries on the walls that hung thick with history. Then their eyes would focus on the bier in the centre and they would walk reverently towards it.

Anselem was also making his way in its direction but the scene couldn't have been more different from what was usual. Now the hall was no longer a place of peace. Instead hammering filled the air as a few of the remaining monks tried to nail long planks across the doors in a desperate effort to reinforce them. Others were crouching on pulpits, clutching crossbows they barely knew how to use and keeping an eyes on the walls. The windows were no longer their former radiant selves; many were broken and of the twelve of the saints that had once stood there watching over the hall only Granio remained intact, sitting at a wooden table, quaffing beer. Maybe not the most edifying one to survive but any glimpse of divine favour was welcome. Occasionally shadows moved in the darkness outside the frames and a nervous monk would loose a bolt but if they hit anything it never made a sound.

Anselem was engaged in a third activity, though he would much rather be holding a weapon instead of just a staff. He was moving slowly across the floor, lighting holders full of incense. He occasionally glanced back at the work on the door. It didn't really matter, in the long run they were all going to die, but he felt that the longer that time could be delayed, the better.

The shuffle of slippers caused him to look up as the Abbot made his way to stand beside him. He put a hand on Anselem's brow; a blessing. “You're doing good work, Anselem,” he told the kneeling novice.

“Thank you, sir.” Part of Anselem wanted to ask, what was the point? But he already knew the answer.

Abbot Bob seemed to sense the question and answered it anyway.

“We might all die when the werewolves finally get in. But with the incense lit they won't be able to find the others.”

The Abbot shuffled away and Anselem returned to his work, while his mind strayed to those sheltering in the cellars; the servants, the villagers and the farmers from the outlying settlements. All had fled here when the werewolves had swept down from the hills.

They'd always been a problem, always a threat to lonely travellers. But they'd never been seen in bands of more than ten before. Any merchant caravan had just taken some guards and they'd been fine.

Now hundreds boiled down from the hills, destroying all in their path.

The nobles of the land had tried to stand against them at first. Since the time of the Saints the power of the monasteries had waned and lords and barons had raised themselves up. They had trained bands of men under their control and it had seemed for a time that they would be able to keep the darkness at bay. But one after another their holds had fallen, their soldiers used only to other men, not the powerful, savage beasts they found themselves fighting. Now the nobles cowered in the cellar along with the carrots and the people they had once controlled.

Anselem wondered how they must be feeling, how everyone must be feeling. To be trapped in the dark, because the werewolves seemed to be able to smell the light given off by candles, hearing the shrieks and howls from above, knowing that you might be found at any moment. It had to be hellish there, hellish and quiet as no-one would be able even to whimper. For a moment he was glad that he was up above. At least he would die breathing air in the place he'd worshipped in and where he'd once found peace.

That moment soon ended as another assault from the werewolves began. The door began shuddering, the monks around it being knocked back, and the howling grew to a great crescendo. There was a clattering as one of the monks in a pulpit released a bolt and it shattered against the wall beside a window. At first Anselem hoped it was just nerves but as more went off he looked up and saw the wolves scuttling like dark spiders through the windows, their dark, hairy limbs almost like humans but far to bestial. He ducked and ran toward the bier, burning the last of his incense as he went. He crashed into its side and spent one second gazing down at it.

Saint Bellarius lay there under a glass case, fingers lying lightly on her sword. She had been dead for longer than time had existed yet here she still rested, not changed in any way at all. Her silver hair pooled across her pillow, her eyelashes still stood like towers. The skin on her face was without blemish and her lips were full and almost moist. She radiated serenity.

Anselem caught a sight of his face reflected in the case. It couldn't have been more different. Hair shorn away, expression full of fear and dirt. Brown eyes wide with the knowledge that he probably wouldn't live to see the next half hour.

There was something else. A flicker of movement, high up behind him. As he turned to see there was a growl and a thud, off to his left. A werewolf had dropped from the ceiling, landing in a pulpit. The monk turned, trying to fire his crossbow and pull a knife from his belt but the beast swiped a claw at him, knocking him down and out of sight. The werewolf followed him down and there came a spray of blood and the sound of rending flesh.

Then he heard a growl and, looking up, he saw a shadow bearing down on him, it's claws raised, a hungry grin floating about it's elongated face. His knees gave out beneath him and he fell against the casket.

“Saint protect me, Saint guide me, Saint allow me no harm,” he half muttered, half begged, trying to raise his staff in a defence he knew wouldn't be enough. He closed his eyes, preferring his last sight to be the darkness he beheld in prayer to the slavering jaws of the beast.

There was a smash of glass and a drop of something landed on Anselem's forehead.

His eyes eased their way open and a gasp of holy shock escaped his lips.

The Saint knelt in her casket, arm outstretched, sword piercing the chest of the werewolf. It hung lifeless, blood running down the blade and dripping onto Anselem's head, like a baptism.

The Saint got to her feet, flicking the body to the side contemptuously. “Well it's about time,” she said and her voice rang like a bell.

Anselem could only gape up at the sight. Bellarius's head were up and her eyes blazing. Unlike the scriptures said they weren't blue but a striking violet, glowing like the moon. Her hair hung to her waist and seemed to sway in a breeze. She bent down and rummaged around her casket for a bit before pulling out a hat with an impossibly wide brim. She secured it onto her head, tucking away her hair. All eyes were on her now, both monk and werewolf, the later apparently having scented the blood of their own. The Saint looked up and seemed to grin. Then, with a flicker of movement, she was gone.

A werewolf on the other side of the hall growled and was dead before it had registered her presence. Another charged toward a monk and was sent toppling back, a gash opening up its chest. Two more died on opposite sides of the room in what seemed to be the same instant. All that could be seen was the glint of her blade or a flicker of her hair and where they were seen, people died.

Anselem could only watch, needing to lean against the bier for support, heedless of the broken glass. He'd read the scripture and, since he was a novice at her monastery, had focused on the segments about Bellarius more than the rest. But he'd always thought they exaggerated in some way. He found himself quoting part of it under his breath. “...and she was death and took death everywhere she went.” He'd always found it needlessly poetic before but now he could see the truth of it.

The werewolves were retreating now, there was nothing else they could do. Any stand they tried to make ended in a moment as a pile of dead. Backward they edged out of the doors, trying to watch for any weakness that might present itself.

Bellarius flickered into being in the centre of the hall, just in front of Anselem. Throwing back her head she uttered a sound that was half song, half screech. There was a harshness to it, yet also a melody. But it followed no tune Anselem could recognise.

There was a grating sound from outside the building and the ordered retreat of the werewolves turned into a full rout. In seconds not one of them were left, all that remained were their corpses. Anselem glanced out of one of the windows and saw horned, winged shapes in pursuit. Had the Saint just brought the gargoyles that encrusted the monastery to life?

Bellarius turned to him, wiping her sword on the first werewolf she'd slain, the one who'd almost killed him. She smiled at him. “That was close,” she said, in her bell-like tones. “How did Seliv ever let them get close?”

“What?” Was this some sort of test? “Surely that's for only Him to know?”

Huh?” Now the Saint looked confused. She may have been able to detect the capital letter in the middle of the sentence. “Where is he anyway?”

Anselem was still puzzled. “The Maker? I don't know. Who am I to know the will of a god?”

“A god? Seliv?” Bellarius looked around, taking in her surroundings fully for what appeared to be the first time. She looked at the tapestries, the alter and finally at the casket where she'd lain dormant for so long. “How long was I out for?”

Philosophical Musings on Killer Robots

Guns roared and spat at him, sending chips of rock spinning off from the block of concrete he was hiding behind. He tried to look over it but had to fling himself back; a line of bullets stitched a wound across the wall behind him.

Crap.

Why did I have to think I could play cards? Kevin know the answer even as he thought it. Because he'd been drunk.

He leaned around the block a bit and pulled of a few return shots. They didn't do any good apart from remind the gangsters where where he was but he hadn't done it to try and hit them. He'd done it to relieve some of the helpless anger that was swirling around in him.

That anger wasn't new, it had been with him for the last three weeks, ever since his father had died. Thomas Kilborn had been a no nonsense sort of man, brutal in some ways but kind in others. He'd run the family business in mechanic implants for a thirty years. Then he'd died in a malfunction at the factory and there Kevin was. He hadn't had any older siblings and his mother had left years ago. It was only him and a warehouse full of bionic arms. Not a position a man of twenty wanted to be in.

The last few weeks hadn't been good. All his fathers business contacts had faded away and debt collectors had moved in like prowling wolves. He'd managed to hold them off but he know that he couldn't last long. His father had made it all look so effortless. Kevin felt like breaking under the stress.

Then there was the girl.

She had appeared three days after his fathers funeral. At first he wasn't even sure she'd existed; all he saw of her was brief glimpses through gaps in the crowd that always thronged the city streets. But he'd seen her more and more until he was convinced that she was indeed following him. The papers on his desk had been shuffled around when he came back from lunch once and he'd known that someone had been looking through them. It was about then that he decided that life looked better through the bottom of a glass.

It had been some sort of urban fairytale after that, though one that was told to keep children awake instead of sending them to sleep. He'd been in the wrong bar in the wrong area and said the wrong thing at the wrong time. In this case the wrong thing was, “Sure I'm good for a game.” He wasn't exactly sure what had happened after that as all he could remember was a blur then everything came into focus after they started shooting at him. Immanent death was better at sobering you up then a hot mug of coffee.

He knew he was going to die, knew it with certainty. There was no way on earth that he could survive this one. There had to be ten guys out there, all wanting his blood. The only reason they hadn't had it yet was that they couldn't be bothered making much of an effort.

A fluttering made him look round towards the wall. A bird had flown down to the ground and was regarding him with its head tilted to one side. It was a bright, vivid yellow and a forked crest stuck up from its head like it had been split like lightening. The fact that something so small and so delicate had suddenly appeared there made him stare. For a moment it was all that existed in the world to him. Then a dark shadow fell over him and he felt that death had at last come.

He turned, bringing up his gun, determined that if he was going to die it wasn't going to be as a snivelling coward. Then it fell with a clatter from his nerveless hand.

A tall cloaked figure towered over him. A long leather jacket swirled about it in mysterious patterns and on its head was a huge, wide brimmed hat. But what was perhaps the most astonishing thing about it was that it didn't seem to want to kill him. All he could see if it was its back; it faces out at his attackers and from the folds in the jacket he could tell that it had it's arms crossed.

The gunfire petered away for a moment; no doubt the gangsters were just as surprised as he was.

“DESIST” The voice that bellowed forth from the figure was loud and imposing as the voice of God. It brooked no argument. He could feel part of himself curl up and quiver in fear.

The gangsters just laughed and started shooting again.

“Then die.” This time the voice was much quieter, almost a prayer of regret. Kevin was sure he was the only one who could hear it.

Then there was a flicker as light fell back across his face and the figure was gone.

A moment later the screams started.

Kevin looked above the block of concrete and every last drop of alcohol remaining in his system seemed to evaporate, leaving him completely sober and regretting it.

The scene of carnage was brightly illuminated by the rising sun. The figure was a flicker of shadow and death, a whirling vortex from which the occasional glint of metal could be seen. The gang members tried shooting at it but none of them seemed to be able to hit it. Then it would be upon them and a few second later they'd be on the ground, blood flowing everywhere. None of them could stand against it. In a minute it was all over and the figure was turning towards him. He offered up a prayer to any God that might exist and be watching. Slowly, piece by piece, he saw who had saved him.

It was the girl.

Under the brim of the hat all the blue eyes burned. A single lock of silver hair hung between them, lying crooked across her nose. She didn't seem to have an expression, apart from one of mild regret. But the eyes, like fires that stared into his soul. He dropped his gaze from them, couldn't stand to see them watching him, like a cat judging a mouse.

From the rest of her he could see that she appeared to be about nineteen, dressed in a loose leather tunic and loose leather trousers, cut in an archaic design. And from one of her arms a sword sprouted in place of a hand.

“Kevin Kilborn.” The voice spoke and he could hear now a lighter tone to it. But it was still deadly serious.

A quick movement caught his eye. The strange girl had left one of the gang members alive, though whither from mercy or because she hadn't seen him behind the wall he'd dived behind he wasn't sure. But up he popped, a shaven head painted blue with tattoos, and fired at the girl. She must have seen him somehow because she was already twisting out of the way, her other arm morphing quickly into a gun. She was so fast she appeared to fire at the same moment as her attacker. He fell back in a spray of blood, his bullet glancing off her leg in a spray of sparks. Kevin looked down and saw that it had ripped right through her trousers and struck metal beneath. He slowly looked back up to her face.

“Kevin Kilborn” She said again. “I have come for you.”

He looked down at her leg, at her arms which were morphing into real hands then his eyes rolled up into his head and he fainted.

He came round to the sound of cheap, grainy music playing from some beat up sound system, the clink of glasses and the low hum of background conversation. His head ached, his face was stuck to the wooden surface it had been lying on. He raised his head with a groan and a feeling of apprehension; he was in a smoky, dimly lit bar.

“I'd be careful, if I was you. You took a bad knock to the head when you fell.”

It was the voice. He stiffened and looked round.

The girl was perched on a stool, hunched over the bar with a tumbler of whisky in her hand. She wasn't looking at him, just staring blankly at the wall behind the bar. In one movement she threw back the whisky and set the empty glass down. The barkeeper, a huge fellow with a broken nose and what looked like knife scars, immediately slid another along to her.

Kevin tried to slip away but the girl merely reached out and grabbed his arm. It might not have looked like much to anyone watching but to him it was like he'd just been shackled. “That's some pretty impressive augments you've got there,” was the only thing he could think of saying.

The girl winked at him. “You have no idea.”

There was silence for a moment while she nursed her whisky. “So what happened?” I asked. She raised her eyebrows and I continued. “What was the accident? That made you get the augments? It must have been pretty bad for you to have your arms and a leg replaced.” And leave you a raging psychopath he added mentally.

The girl shrugged. “Whatever it was left me inhuman.”

Kevin felt more sure with this. He was used to the people who'd come to his dad for spare limbs to feel that they were taking away a part of their humanity. Maybe this was a way to connect to her. And that could only help. She would probably not kill him then.

“You aren't inhuman just because some of you is metal. It might even make you more so.”

She just smiled a wan smile. “But say that all of me was metal. What then?”

This made Kevin pause. He knew that there were some people out there who'd suffered burns or something and had had to have an almost complete body overhaul. They were rare though.

“It doesn't change the basic principle though. Inside you're still...look, can you tell me your name?”

The girl looked at him expressionlessly. “Mysuki.”

Kevin gave her a searching glance. She didn't look Japanese. Then he continued. “Anyway, it doesn't change anything. You're still human at heart.”

“But what does it mean to be human? What is being human?”

Kevin glanced at her annoyed. Usually people were reassured after that; they wanted to be human so much that after those few words they went away satisfied. Those that didn't were usually depressed and Kevin wondered if she were on antidepressants. Or if she should be drinking whisky like it was water. Mysuki had let him go and chugged another of the tumblers. He considered running but knew that it would be pointless. She'd have no trouble coming after him.

He quickly marshalled his thoughts and pressed on.

“Well being human is being alive. And having independent thoughts and being creative. And loving and hating.”

Mysuki was downing yet another whisky. Now he could focus he could see that the bar in front of her was covered in the glasses. She must have downed a couple of bottle at least if they were all hers.

“So having emotions is important for being human? You have to be able to love? But how is that uniquely human? Animals feel it too.”

“Animals don't feel both love and hate. They may love but they don't display the characteristics of real burning have; the need for revenge and to get back and harm the person in any way. Animals don't bear those sort of grudges.”

Mysuki laughed. It sounded out of place, like happy bells at a funeral.

“So the only thing that makes humans unique is hate? What a wonderful species you are. And I'm supposed to be the evil one.”

Kevin felt annoyed at this. “There's love too. But we seem to display hate more. But we're also creative. Can animals be that?”

“They are. There's the way birds build their nests, there's the way that crows can use modern technology to open nuts and shells. So birds are creative too.”

“Not in the same way though,” Kevin argued. “They all build or do things to the same basic pattern. There's nothing new done. And the crows are just adapting to their surroundings. That's not being creative. Look, do you play a musical instrument?” Mysuki nodded and he continued, warming to what he thought was a successful line of reasoning. “Well it's stuff like that that make humans special. Birds and other animals may sound musical but they're just warning calls and stuff. They are necessary. But we do it for fun or some feeling of satisfaction.”

Mysuki shrugged. “And being alive? How do you define it?”

Kevin was pleased. He seemed to be getting through to her. “Well scientifically life is characterised as beings that move, that grow, that breath, that react to their surroundings, that digest and that...um...reproduce.”

Mysuki was grinning now. “So if you're all of these things then you're alive? And if you're alive then you're human?”

Kevin sighed with relief. It looks like he got through to her at last. “Yes. If you are a combination of all these factors then you're human.”

Mysuki's grin only seemed to get wider. “So despite the fact that I am a robot, I'm human?”

Kevin wasn't sure what to say to this. “A robot?” Maybe that was the whisky finally kicking in.

Mysuki whistled and a flash of yellow shot across the room till the forked bird landed on her hat. Then she reached up and swung back her face.

Inside her head was nothing but circuits.

Kevin just stared as she closed her head and calmly ordered another whisky.

“So,” she said, after it had arrived. She pulled a metal saucer from somewhere in her voluminous jacket it and poured the glass into it. The bird hopped over and started sipping from it. “Am I human?”

“No,” was the instant reply to her that sprung to his lips. This just make her grin again.

“You hypocrite. You just sat there and said the no matter how much metal I was made of I was human. Now you want to take it back?”

Kevin was still reeling that the kind-of attractive girl in front of him was, to all extents and purposes, a walking talking toaster. “Yes,” he spluttered. “You aren't alive.”

“How?”

“Well you don't grow. You don't digest. You don't breath.”

Mysuki ordered another whisky. “I do grow. I need spare parts every so often and from them have added on several inches to my height. I used to look sixteen. And do you think I've been drinking this just for the hell of it?” She gestured with an empty glass. “I'm distilling it inside me to use for fuel. Soon I'll have to run off the waste water that's part of it. So how is that different to digesting? And I can breath. I use it to burn the fuel.”

“Please to God you don't reproduce.”

“Why? You interested?” Musuki's smile had turned a bit bitter by now. She stroked the head of the bird with one finger. “I made this little one, using the same procedures as the ones who made me did. We're of the same species and I made another one.”

Kevin had trouble finding fault in her argument though he knew there must be one. Maybe he'd hit his head harder then he'd thought. He reached back and felt the sore bit and was surprised to find it neatly bandaged. He pulled his hand back and smelt his fingers. They smelt of whisky. So she'd even gone to the care of disinfecting it too.

“Well do you love and hate? Do you feel emotions?”

Any semblance of a good mood Mysuki might have displayed were fell and truly gone. She had another glass of whisky and was glowering over it as if bad memories plagued her. It was a moment before she answered. “Oh I feel emotions all right. I've hated. I might have loved. I've felt joy, such as in this little one,” here she stroked the bird again. “I've felt sad and alone. Yup, I've felt emotions.” And she slugged back the whisky.

Kevin wasn't sure what do say next. She was obviously thinking back over her past. He didn't really want to intrude. But there was one final point to go over.

“Are you creative though?”

In answer Mysuki reached into her jacket and pulled out a flute. She put it to her lips and began to play. A haunting melody filled the pub, seeming to drown out the cheep music. This was a real song. It spoke of hope, then sadness, loneliness, despair. It trailed off and Mysuki stared into thin air for a moment. “I wrote that song,” she said dreamily.

“What the hell was that crap?” A burly man had got up from one of the nearby tables and ambled over. He looked like he worked at the nearby docks. If they even were still near the docks. With a small thrill of horror Kevin realised that he had no idea where they were. “Do you think this is the sort of place you can come to practise your music lessons? Or are you looking for some action?” He grinned greedily and reached towards her.

Kevin stood up and shoved his hand away. “Keep away from her,” he growled. The man stared at him and he was instantly conscious of the fact that he'd lost his gun somewhere and that the man outweighed him by what seemed like a ton.

“Piss off squirt.” The man swung a punch at his stomach. Kevin closed his eyes and waited for the pain.

All that he heard was a sigh, a whisper of wind and a mangled grunt.

“That's very sweet of you Kevin but it's my job to defend you, not the other way round.”

Kevin open his eyes when the pain didn't seem to be forthcoming and stared in amazement at the still tablue before him. Mysuki seemed to have intercepted the punch and now she was quietly throttling the man with his own arm. His head was back against the bar and his arm was hooked over his throat. Mysuki was leaning casually on his hand, sipping quietly more whisky. A palpable aura of anger and violence radiated off her. “You wanted me, right? Well now you've got me. Are you happy?”

The man managed a strangled grunt and somehow lashed out with his leg. It hit Mysuki's leg with a faint clang and a small snap. The mans face turned white. He appeared to have snapped his own ankle.

“What, you want more?” Mysuki flexed the fingers of the arm holding his down; there was more snaps. She had certainly broken some bones. “Is that enough for you? I could break more of your body. I could kicked you so hard in the balls that you'll have three Adams apples and will sing like you're high on helium for the rest of your life.” She put her glass down and morphed her arm into a blade. The man stared at it frantically out of the corner of his eyes. Kevin was aware of having the attention of the whole bar on them by this point. He stood aside to give them a better view.

“There's lots of places I could stick this where it would really really hurt. Places where you'd die real slow. And I'm sure you don't need your tongue. You didn't seem to be interested in talking before.” The man made more faint moaning sounds. It was hard to sound pleading with just grunts while your face was all the colours of the English flag but he managed it. Mysuki shrugged. “All right, I'll let you go.” she twisted his arm and pulled, spinning him through the air. She stopped him mid-flight by grabbing his head then rammed it straight down onto the bar. His nose flattened completely and as she let go of him he slumped unconscious to the floor, blood gushing out and covering his face. She wiped her hand fastidiously on her jacket. “I hate people like that,” she said to the room at large and there was the faint sound of people trying very hard not to look like people like that.

She straightened her jacket, drained what remained of the whisky that she'd poured for the bird into the saucer (which wasn't much, the bird had basically emptied it), put the saucer back into a pocket then turned to the door. She appeared to have calmed somewhat but Kevin still felt scared of her. The way that she'd turned her anger on like that and crushed the guy. The rather sweet girl he'd been talking to the minute before had disappeared utterly.

She paused at the doorway. “So we've established that I'm human, have we Kevin? You've just seen emotions. What do you think?”

She didn't give him time for a reply. “Well whatever you think you should come with me. Whatever my origins I have been told to protect you. Or at least your family, for the last few hundred years. Only I didn't like many of them much, so I decided to stay away. But I think I like you, so I'm going to hang around.”

She turned and flashed him a smile. “Lucky for you, eh?”

Freaky Eatrs

The grass was long and supple beneath him. He wasn't doing anything, just lying on his back with his eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of the sun's rays beaming down on him. He could hear wind rustling in the trees and the nearby babbling of a brook. He felt he could lie there all day, perfectly content and safe.

A shadow passed over him, blocking out the light and warmth. A sudden fear descended upon him.

“Jesse?” he asked, then a hand clamped itself over his mouth and woke him up.

He groaned and opened his eyes, hearing a voice say, “Howard!” in a cautious, repeated whisper. He finally focused on the shape hunched over him. “Ben?” he asked, mumbling around the hand. “Is it my turn on watch already?”

His friend shook his head in warning, a scared look on his face and Howard realised for the first time just how much trouble they were in. He nodded to his friend, showing he understood, and the hand was removed. “How many?” he asked in a whisper.

“Too many,” was the almost silent reply as Ben turned and started slithering away through the wreckage, his foil suit just beginning to shine in the light of the rising sun. Howard followed, after taking the safety off the gun that had lain beside him as he slept.

The landscape through which they slipped couldn't have been more different from that of his dream. There were no plants here, no green, no life. Instead barren rock and the remains of crumbled buildings, splashed red with the pre-dawn glow. Dust coated everything, undisturbed apart from his passage. He spat out some that got in his mouth and continued on.

After as a few minutes they came to a small hollow. Here there was more dust on the bottom but ridges of rock rose all around it. There was also something of a roof, providing a little shelter. It was in this dark space that a boy crouched, fiddling away with the dials of a machine that emitted a faint green light.

Howard turned to Ben. “You woke him before me?” he said, trying to sound a little hurt.

Ben shook his head. “Isaac was the one on watch. He woke me but I didn't think it would be safe for him to wake you. You know, with your whole 'sleeping outside of camp' thing you've got going.”

“I can't sleep in here, it's too creepy.” Howard gestured towards the roof. “This was once someone's home. If I slept here I'd dream of their ghosts.” It wasn't the truth and Ben knew it but Howard didn't want to have the conversation again. There was no point, he and Ben had already gone over it too many times. Instead he crawled over to Isaac and the screen he was intently studying. “What's the situation?” he asked.

Isaac looked up, the light changing his eyes from their normal pale blue to green. “We're dead,” he said simply.

At first Howard was tempted to laugh it off. He turned to Ben to share the joke and the laughter died in his throat. Ben was nodding along and Howard was much more inclined to pay attention to him.

“What are we up against?” he asked.

No one answered him so he pushed Isaac out of the way and had a look at the machine himself. He just stared blankly at the screen for a second, unwilling to believe what he was seeing. “Shit,” he swore softly, only just under his breath.

Then he frowned. “Why is the image all fuzzy?”

Isaac shook his head. “I don't know. It's been like that all night. Maybe there's another patrol out there. I thought I heard something moving about during the night.”

Howard pondered on it for a moment then shook his head, not wanting false hope to enter his mind. “No,” he said. “We're the only ones supposed to be here. There's no help out there.

“We have to face them alone.”

“We could just hide and wait for them to go away,” Isaac suggested.

Howard glanced at Ben and shook his head. He and Ben had been going out on patrol together for several years and wore the scars to prove it. This was Isaac's first time and his fresh face was full of fear.

Ben looked pointedly at Howard then turned away to begin unpacking some cases that were stacked against one wall. Howard knew what it meant; he was the leader, he should sort it out.

He put one hand on Isaac's shoulder, who had gone back to the machine after Howard had turned away from it. “Look kid, we have to attack them. That's what us being here is all about. If we don't, someone else will have to. Better it be us then someone caught off-guard.”

Isaac didn't answer, just kept staring at the screen. Howard sighed.

“Ben, what's the chance of us surviving against this?”

Ben looked round, a machine gun in each hand. “Against a Reaper? Maybe one in a hundred? Against a Reaper, two Birds, a Crawler and a few Harvesters? None at all.”

“That's what I thought.” Howard turned back to Isaac. “You can sit this one out, kid. We'll need someone to get a report of this back to base anyway.”

He was just crawling over to get some ammo from Ben when Isaac spoke.

“I'm not a kid.”

“You're sixteen,” Ben pointed out.

“And you're nineteen. If you're fighting I am as well.”

Howard hesitated a moment then nodded. “Good man. Ben, give him the grenade launcher and the M-52. That should do it.”

Once they were suitable tooled up they left the cave, leaving the machine behind them. The place was a well known supply point. They'd left a message on the machine, so that anyone who found it would know their fate.

They had been creeping through the rubble for about ten minutes before they eventually saw the dot in the sky that they knew signalled their death. Ben took a quick look through some binoculars then grunted. He passed them over to Howard.

“That's how they managed to get a Reaper this far north,” he said.

Howard looked, a read-out on the binoculars telling him that the enemy were still a couple of kilometres away, though they were closing fast. He took in the sight, those bird-like contraptions, wide wings glistening with solar panels. Between them he could see the Reaper, curled up and inactive at the moment.

He cursed briefly and wondered if he should send Isaac back to report this after all. Reapers couldn't usually make this journey; it required too much energy from them. But if they were being transported like that they could travel as far as they wanted.

He decided against it. They machine was still recording everything and their commanders would be able to work out how it was done by the way the signatures of the Birds and the Reaper separated. This was to be his last stand, he was suddenly aware that he wanted everyone between himself and death as possible.

He was just wondering if Ben felt the same way when his friend spoke.

“So did Jesse ever say anything on how to deal with these things?”

Jesse. As always the name brought back so many memories, some sweet, many scary. To this day he didn't know whether he'd loved her or was just drawn into her wake, like a flagellant to a prophet of doom. He remembered when he'd first seen her, her red hair dripping with blood. It wasn't often she was in a better state. There were a few treasured moments stored in his mind; of when she was clean and as close to a normal human being as she got. He'd even got her to dance once, at one of the occasional balls that used to be held. She'd been glowing in a dress and, as he'd held her close to a slow waltz, he'd felt happy in a world full of possibilities.

Then he's made the mistake of trying to lean down and kiss her.

He'd woken up the next day to find his broken nose neatly set and Jesse sitting by his bed. She hadn't apologised and he hadn't tried again.

It was soon after that that she was gone.

“Howard?” Ben gently broke him out of his revelry. “Did she have anything to say?”

“Jackhammer rockets.” The memory of Jesse summoned anger to melt through the fear. Suddenly he only wanted the machines that oppressed them in little pieces. “She said a couple of those should do the job.”

“Right then.” Ben swung the launcher round from where it hung over his shoulder. “No time like the present.”

Howard removed the safety of his gun and nodded. Isaac just stared ahead, the grenade launcher held ready. Ben pulled his trigger then immediately started loading another rocket.

Howard ignored him, focusing instead on the path of the first. It curved though the air, looping in deceptively gentle spirals. Then it hit the Birds.

They must have sensed it coming because they dropped the Reaper just before it hit. They tried dodging but weren't fast enough. The rocket exploded just between them, shredding their wings and most of their bodies. They plummeted to the ground, leaking a dark, red, liquid.

He hadn't the time to watch them. The Reaper had survived and would be active in only a few minutes. Already the other robots had tracked the heat source of the rocket and were closing in.

They appeared suddenly from the maze of rubble, the Harvesters merely simple boxes with a head and a multitude of limbs, the Crawler a moving semi-sphere, bristling with guns.

“One each!” yelled Howard, overcome with battle lust and the memory of his once friend. “The Crawler's mine.”

He ran forward, finger pressed tightly on the trigger, spraying bullets at his target. Jesse had always said to move fast when fighting Crawlers. They had trouble tracking fast moving objects. He dodged to one side, Ben's next missile streaking past him and detonating against a Harvester, blowing it to pieces. The small part of his mind that wasn't being clouded red analysed this and caused him to frown. They didn't usually destroy Harvesters like that, it risked their cargo. But once the Reaper got airborne they were likely all dead and it was important to deprive their enemy of as much as possible.

Then there was no more thinking, no more analysis. There was just the Crawler in front of him and the gun in his hands.

He ducked behind cover, waited a moment, then dived forward in a roll which brought him to the base of the Crawler. He jumped, using the protruding gun muzzles to clamber to the top. The blue line about halfway up it flickered erratically as the robot tried to process his sudden disappearance. He didn't give it time, placing shot after shot into the blue plastic hub below his feet. It cracked, was blown away, revealing the metallic brain of his adversary. He didn't stop, kept firing till the light went out completely and he was left standing atop a dead hulk, like a child on a morbid climbing frame. He scrambled down and back to his comrades. Ben was still trying to load another rocket. Isaac was also loading more ammo, his Harvester a smoking wreck. Howard was pleased to see he hadn't frozen. He felt hopeful for the first time.

Then some sixth sense caused him to look back and he saw the Reaper rise into the air.

There was a certain deadly beauty to it. It was humanoid, with a big, bulky chest and a blocky head. Over one of it's shoulders Howard could see the protruding handle of the scythe that gave the Reaper it's name. It hovered in the air, supported by twin jets of power from the pack on it's back.

“See those, kid?” Ben asked Isaac, still trying to fit the rocket in. It seemed to have jammed and he swore rapidly before continuing. “Well those are the reason we don't see any this far north. Takes too much power.”

“I know,” Isaac replied, his hand tightening on his grenade launcher. Howard could hear the fear in his voice and didn't blame them. The Reaper was death and it didn't seem like Ben would have his weapon ready in time. Because time had just run out.

The Reaper had spotted them, turned in their direction and started to move forward with blinding speed.

The next few moments would remain embedded in Howard's mind for quite some time.

“Got it,” he heard Ben say, just as a rocket jetted upwards on an explosion of flame, heading directly for the Reaper. It sensed it while it was a metre away, shutting off it's jets and dropping a foot as the rocket sped through the area where it had been. It flew forward again, intent on it's target.

Just as the rocket curved in mid-air and hit it from behind.

The Reaper let loose a screech of what could almost be described as pain, falling heavily to the ground. This didn't stop it however, it was on it's feet and running with blinding speed in the direction the rocket had come from.

A jumble of wreckage fifty metres to his right.

Ben tried firing his rocket but the machine easily dodged, still heading in the same direction, drawing it's scythe from it's back as it ran. Howard sprinted forward too, knowing in his heart there was only one person who it could be.

With a flash of red hair and a shriek of laughter Jesse jumped into sight.

Howard knew that he couldn't do anything to help. The Reaper was already too close to shoot at, he would risk hitting her. So he could only watch and pray.

At it closed with her Jesse struck first. Her hand whipped forward and something a glittering silver flowed in an arc around it. It struck the Reapers chest, drawing a scar across the flawless metal. She was already flipping herself backwards out of sight when it swung it's weapon in retaliation. The Reaper leapt after her and they both disappeared from view.

Howard had to climb a mountain of rubble before he could them see again. They were in the small confines of a room, filled with dazzling mirrors that shone as bright as the suit he was wearing, almost blurring with the speed with which they struck against each other. The Reaper was faster but Jesse seemed able to anticipate all it's moves and use them against it. She managed to produce a small red shield from somewhere and was just deflecting a strike as he watched. Her other arm twirled in response and again the light streaked, giving the robot yet another scar to add to the others she had apparently already inflicted. But the Reaper had managed to wound her as well. Blood dripped from light scars on her arm and neck where she hadn't managed to completely dodge in time.

Howard could hear his companion's scramble their way up behind him but he couldn't turn away from the sight before him. They almost seem to be dancing, both managing to lightly hit the other a few times but nothing fatal. It seemed like they could go on for ever, both tireless, each given energy by their hate for the other.

Then came end-game.

Jesse moved abruptly and her weapon finally stopped moving long enough to become recognisable as it wrapped itself round the hilt of the scythe. It appeared to be a whip made of blades, each edged with some strange gold metal. It anchored itself firmed and Jesse twirled, guiding the scythe over her head. For the first time the Reaper seemed uncertain, it stumbled and Jesse struck. She leapt, landing firmly on the Reaper's weapon, forcing it to the ground and out of it's grip. It flailed backwards, blades sliding from it's fingers as it attempted to defend itself but Jesse didn't give it a moments pause to assimilate the new scenario. She bashed her shield into it's face then leapt after it, her whip pulling the scythe after her. She caught it by it's handle and swung it at it's former owner.

Isaac reached the top of the hill and fired into the room.

Time seemed to slow and Howard almost saw the grenade move through the air. Jesse had just decapitated the Reaper and it's head had started a slow tumble to the earth, the lights in it's eyes already fading. Howard couldn't see her face but knew what it would look like, the savage smile on her face, the gleam of triumph in her eyes.

Then the grenade reached her and exploded.

Howard was already running down the hill, his reflexes sharpened by years of combat. He hoped that she still lived, while knowing the chances of it happening were very slight. But if anyone, anyone at all, had any chance of surviving surely it would be her.

Dust had fountained into the air with the explosion and, coughing, he fought his way through it. He stumbled a bit as his feet met the Reaper's body, broken from battle and fire. His questing hand found a wall and he followed it along for a bit. Then a hint of red caught his eye and he hurried towards it, shouting her name, caring not for the grit that got into his throat.

It was her shield, battered but still whole. Behind it she was draped against the wall, her slightly frame twisted and still.

“Jesse!” he yelled. Then a crumbling sound reached his ears. Looking up he saw the descending rock that had fallen off the top of the wall seconds before it hit him.

Then there was only blackness.