Auxiliary by Alan Kevin

Author:Alan, Kevin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-11-01T00:00:00+00:00

***

The Gallia’s cannons stayed level. The bipedal machine’s hooves were spread, bracing itself to deliver the blast. The insides of its cannons glowed hot orange. But no blast came.

Then the color sapped out of them. The sound of its many motors and gears grinding and straining went silent. There was a sharp breath of hydraulics decompressing. The giant thing dropped a foot or two in height as the air left its leg pistons. Its upper body slouched forward.

Bishop clutched the pistol with both hands, forefinger still squeezing the trigger. He blinked. Waited. Blinked again. Looked up, through the metal grated floor above. Saw several more tiers of grated floors. No one walking on them.

Checked the pistol’s energy level indicator. Near empty.

He reholstered the EMW phaser pistol after a long time. A long moment of collecting himself. Some fleeting thoughts came to him in that moment of pause. Questions that seriously challenged the purpose of going on living after this was all said and done. Questions that he’d never asked himself before. Because he always had a purpose. But that purpose was taken from him.

He ventured farther into the space between the two towers in search of a viable direction south, to the gate he’d entered through. Or another way out, if it presented itself. Regardless, he’d have a gauntlet of hardship ahead of him. More snipers. More spotlights. More Gallia walkers. A near-dead EMW pistol, a near-empty sub machine gun, a few canisters of smoke and sleep gas, and some other assorted nick-nacks.

He searched the nearby area for anything that might make his going easier. In the past, he’d procured many of his best, most useful tools in the field. Odd items which he made quick, use of. Some, not so odd.

But all he found now was more junk, like what he’d seen tucked into the corner before attempting to slip by the Gallia walker, moments ago. Machine parts. Small chemical drums. Cardboard boxes. Stuff ready for the dumpster, he devised.

Bishop froze.

Whirring. Grinding. Pistons hissing. Many fine, intricate motors powering up. He turned his head.

The Gallia walker fired back up, stomping, shuffling, its shoulder cannons clacking and cocking. Its computer programs, booting back to life.

Bishop shrugged.

So this was it.

The Gallia rotated towards Bishop, clunked into gear, and began stomping forward. Its long barrels angled at him, glowing again as they charged up.

Its legs flashed with two bright explosions. Oil, hydraulic fluid, and molten metal cascaded from its knees. An intense bar of light with a silver tail swooped through the pair of legs and stopped inches in front of Bishop. Just like the mech jaguar.

The Gallia walker halted. Everything above its knees slid forward, off of a slightly-angled cut made in its legs. Made by the sword. Wasp’s sword.

Wasp sheathed the blade, standing chest to chest with Bishop. The severed upper portion of the Gallia walker toppled to the floor with a huge crash. Bishop craned his neck over Wasp’s shoulder to assess what had just happened. Shook his head as the knot in his gut came back.

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