Read Borne On Wings of Steel Online
Authors: Tony Chandler
Borne On Wings of Steel
Hard Shell Word Factory
www.hardshell.com
Copyright ©2008 by Anthony C. Wages
First published in 2008, 2008
DRINAR SENSED THE evil.
And it drew closer with each passing second.
He continued walking, but now his senses were on high alert and he wasn't quite sure why.
His pace quickened through the crowded labyrinth of Lyth City, surrounded by the seemingly harmless bustle of aliens.
Still, there was something
new
among the myriads of aliens crowding the streets now
...
A reflection or a movement.
Yes. A movement!
Movement existed everywhere—the crushing crowds on the high-speed sidewalks, the countless air vehicles zooming between the metallic towers that reached skyward and kissed the swirling, violet clouds overhead.
But this movement was different...
He paced himself in order not to give away to his pursuer his awareness of the chase. With sudden resolution, he darted into the throng of aliens to his left and headed for the dock where his fast starship sat at the ready.
Every alien his glance fell upon revealed no overt threat.
Still, something watched him—something powerful, something evil.
Drinar's instinct was never wrong, especially when he felt it this powerfully.
A low growl rumbled from his throat as he caressed the butt of his holstered blaster. A split-second later, he stepped quickly to his right past another group of aliens and put his back against the base of the nearest city tower.
The murmuring crowds walked past him unabated as Drinar scanned more who approached.
Nothing.
Something caught his attention about six meters above the crowds a full block away.
Something moved.
As he gazed at the polished tritanium tower that rose like a gigantic needle to the clouds above, he saw nothing but the smooth, steel walls. He focused harder, mentally dimming the bright lights of the alien city and the countless air-vehicles whose reflections glistened off its metallic sides with an almost hypnotizing effect.
The Iraxxian warrior fixed his gaze at one spot as his instincts hammered his body with an overwhelming urge to fight—or to flee. His breathing and heart rate increased ten-fold—but he willed his muscles to hold still one more moment. His eyes now refocused to another spot—watching and waiting. Nothing, not the crowds passing around him nor the flashing lights of the city, distracted his piercing gaze.
He saw it—
almost.
In that instant, a feeling of intense dread filled his soul.
A ghostly image resolved momentarily—a nightmare shape clutching the sheer side of the tower. The shape wavered as if he imagined it—not really seeing it with his eyes. In the next second, the huge, spidery shape vanished—melting back into the wall and into nothingness.
The muscular Iraxxian burst into a quick stride through the late evening crowds of the great city. But the strange feeling haunting him all evening now exploded and pulsed throughout his body with each beat of his powerful heart. He fought against the urge to break out into a run.
It wasn't supposed to end like this
, he thought. His mission was only half finished, and now it was threatened with total failure—for in his heart he knew what evil relentlessly pursued him.
He stopped abruptly at the next intersection and drew out his handheld sensor with a lightning motion. His fingers danced over the display as he searched for the signatures of his known enemies.
Drinar needed to know—and he needed to know now.
His heart missed a beat as the display of his hand-held sensor picked up a ghostly signal. The source of the mysterious signal quickly moved unseen above the crowds. Almost immediately, the signal disappeared.
But now he knew.
A
Destructor
pursued him.
Drinar ran through the crowded streets, scrambling between aliens, knocking down one and bouncing off another.
And still he ran.
A few moments later he fell, tripped by unseen feet.
Shouts and angry voices roared after him as he jumped up and increased his pace.
Now the bright, flashing lights of the city reflected with crazy lines off the glass towers that rose high above the thick mass of late-night revelers. Drinar quickly ducked inside one of the party palaces, hoping to hide himself among the thousands dancing in the crowded, glowing room. The dancers were packed so tightly together that their writhing bodies were in almost constant contact with everyone else around them. The whole room seethed as one great mass of movement.
Panting, he quickly surveyed the room and made his way deeper among the rhythmically moving bodies.
Drinar was bigger than most aliens; his muscular form stood head and shoulders above those dancing within the mesmerizing mixture of pulsating lights and loud music. His scaly skin glowed its true reddish color where it was exposed at his face and neck as white lights suddenly flashed. The rest of his body was clothed by a leather, one-piece jumpsuit, except for his thick tail which protruded just above his buttocks.
That short, muscular tail now curled with tension as he raised his face and sniffed the air. Drinar's short snout wrinkled as he took in quick breaths, tasting the air.
Reaching down, he felt the comforting handle of the blaster still holstered at his right side while his left hand firmly grasped his sheathed sword, keeping it tight against his leg so as not to get it tangled with a reckless dancer.
Maybe his bio-signs would be masked by the mass of aliens. Maybe the Destructor would continue past and lose his trail.
Maybe.
He pushed forward toward the far end of the room. But halfway through, piercing screams rose above the loud, pulsating music.
He turned and saw the distant commotion among the aliens—almost at the exact point where he had entered the room.
More screams of pure terror drowned the music.
The Destructor's main camouflage, its ability to match its background and avoid visual detection, became partially nullified by the pulsating laser lights and changing color schemes synchronized with the rhythm of the music.
The dancers saw, at the edge of their vision, the terrible form of the Destructor as it flashed in and out visibility.
Suddenly, everyone ran for the exits.
Drinar pushed others out of his way as he made a last bid for escape toward the rear of the building.
But even as he burst out into the clear, he knew his life was now measured in seconds.
He crashed down a darkened hallway, stumbling blindly in the dim red lighting as he searched for an exit out into the open city streets once again. The screams grew closer, telling Drinar that his executioner gained on him. Still, even if he made it out into the streets, he had no idea where to go or what he could do to escape it.
He simply ran for his life.
Drinar bumped into something in a darkened section and fell onto the floor, knocking the breath out of his triple lungs. Lying there, fighting to breathe, he heard the ominous humming sound for the first time and realized the chase was over.
Actually, his life was forfeit the first moment he realized it was a Destructor.
He lay there, still fighting for that first good breath of air as he pulled his weapon out and aimed it at the darkness behind him.
He fired. The laser bolt from his blaster illuminated the room for one fraction of a second like green lightning.
But the hallway was empty!
The flash of his weapon momentarily revealed a corridor empty except for debris that littered the floor. With wide eyes, the Iraxxian warrior strained to see through the darkness, strained to see the slightest movement that would reveal the Destructor's position.
Had it left? Or simply given up just when it had closed upon its prey? Wild thoughts rushed through Drinar's mind as he peered into the darkness, trying to see the unseeable.
Drinar found himself able to breathe again—his own raspy gasps drowning all other sounds before they reached his horn-tipped ears.
A faint hope rose inside his broad chest.
And then something fell—a tiny piece of ceiling debris floated gently down in lazy spirals right before his face...
Drinar froze.
He heard it then, almost ... almost as if he imagined it. He strained his ears as silence pressed in all around and choked him—strangling him as if he were awake inside his own nightmare.
He finally heard it again—a scratching sound mixed with a faint, ominous humming.
With a sickening dread, he knew the Destructor crouched somewhere above him in the darkness—probably braced against the ceiling with its multiple arms and legs splayed out and ready to make its final attack.
The sinister scratching sound echoed again—slightly louder, and
closer
.
The warrior screamed as he brought his blaster up and fired it in a deadly volley. Tracers pierced the pure darkness above him in line after line of deadly streaks, piercing the ceiling and sending chunks down in a steady stream of falling debris.
He fired upward in all directions.
But the invisible monster did not fall.
With a flash of movement, his weapon was knocked out of his grasp. Almost instantly, a suffocating weight fell upon him. He felt the many arms groping his body and grasping at his flailing hands until they pinned him down.
He struggled valiantly a moment, but soon could no longer move.
As he strained against the merciless strength that held him fast, Drinar regretted only one thing—he had not gotten the message to Qirn.
His eyes strained to make out the Destructor, but even though it held him fast just above, he could not make it out against the darkness.
The whirring of precision gears caused his eyes to fix on the source of that new, sinister sound.
Drinar steeled himself.
In the darkness, he saw a faint reflection against a shiny, black surface. Drinar's eyes made out the silhouette of the Destructor's pincer coming closer.
He saw it plainly now, a black steel needle outlined against the darkness as it came toward his neck. Its razor sharp tip poised to pierce his skin with only the briefest hint of pain. It would then allow the deadly fluid to flow inside his body until his guts melted into a fiery ooze—almost like being digested from the inside out by a giant, metallic insect.
But Destructors did not eat.
Drinar groaned.
No, his would not be a pleasant death.
As the wicked tip drew within inches of his neck, Drinar played his last card.
With a flick of his short, muscular tail, Drinar slapped the iron grip and freed his right hand.
In the darkness, the Iraxx warrior fought for his life.
And his frantic efforts were rewarded.
In the instant he felt its weight lift off, Drinar rolled over and jumped to his feet in one fluid motion. As he stood in a battle crouch facing the sound from where the Destructor gathered itself in the darkness, he drew the sword from its scabbard and held it before him—ready for action.
"Now, let us fight to the death,” Drinar growled
