The Amits had taken their time. They knew that they had won, and so had set about feasting. But eventually they had worked up enough of an appetite to make the final push.
Once more they rushed through a storm of bullets. They disintegrated as the twelve-pounder discharged a cluster of grapeshot, faltered, then charged again. Claws ripped at the broken stone, reaching and grasping. A man was seized by his locks of hair and pulled through the gap; his screams cut short as his body toppled backwards, missing its head. Bayonets jostled and found their mark in pale flesh as pistols rang out in the tight confines and set Rene’s ears ringing.
“Get back!” shouted the engineers, “You’ve done your best! We’ll take it from here!”
The wall of detritus had begun to buckle beneath the weight of the enemy. The engineers brought out the red plunger and ran the wire to the final batch of charges. These were strapped to every major column and support in the room. They were to be buried alive, to deny the enemy their final victory.
The first Amit clawed its head through. It was impaled on half a dozen blades and hurled back. Then the second burst in and bathed a man head to toe in its corrosive juices, melting him down to bare red musculature in seconds. The monsters scrambled into the breach with reckless abandon, and the slaughter began.
The engineer was killed, brained by an axe before he could blow the charges. Crawling across the floor, battered and bruised by the trampling feet of the melee, Rene found the box and pried it from his dead hands. With a final whimper he closed his eyes and depressed the plunger.
#
Sometime later Rene awoke with a throbbing head. Absently he wondered if the afterlife was supposed to hurt this much, but then he felt a cold film of cave water touch the side of his face, and reluctantly accepted the fact that he was alive.
The chamber was gone. All about him were strewn great slabs of ceiling, under which various limbs protruded. Beside him, Prota had been buried beneath wreckage, her pendant flung clear. Absently he reached over and pocketed it.
His pants were wet; water was streaming through from somewhere. Through a gap in the huge slump of debris at the entrance he made out shadows moving against the torchlight, and heard sounds of them doing unspeakable things.
He dragged himself upright and cried out a second time in misery and pain. Immediately he regretted that action, as a milky white eye came up to the gap and looked about hungrily. It spotted him and tapped its feet against the stone in excitement. A horde of scuttling figures flitted into view. There was a scuffling sound as they began to dig at the obstruction. He groaned, and looked about him for a weapon, anything with which to end his life quickly and in relatively less anguish. Then he saw it.
The chamber had collapsed, and in doing so a broken pillar several tons heavy had knocked against the impenetrable eastern wall, the one that Admiral Prota’s workmen had been chipping carefully at for a year. It had smashed through the obstruction, and now its great bulk held up the fragile archway. More importantly, an opening had appeared. One that looked just the right size for a child to crawl through. Cave water streamed from the rent, lapping at the bodies of the slain. Behind him the Amit shuddered with delight, spitting torrents of acid against the stone in order to get through to him faster.
He went into the crawlspace and found it was a tight fit. He tried flattening his belly. When that didn’t work, he removed the tattered remnants of his sealant suit, and barely managed to squeeze inside.
He emerged into a cool tunnel. Motes of dust millennia old swirled placidly in the still air, lit by glowing phosphorescent mushrooms that lined the damp walls. Water wet his toes as he stumbled painfully along.
The floor was even and polished to a mirror sheen. Across the chamber was an odd doorway, ovoid in shape. He went over to it, searched in vain for a doorknob, then chuckled and gave up. He felt an absence of fear and knew that his lifting spirits had something to do with this place being exposed to the outside atmosphere. He had at best a few hours left to live. He shrugged and peered about him in the murk.
These tunnels sloped down below the open eastern section. If he could reach a ventilation shaft, there was a chance he could live. Assuming of course that he found a mask sometime soon. He had lost his at some point in the brawl. Thankfully he still had the compass. He took it out but watched in disbelief as the needle began to spin like a top. Cleary whatever magnetic anomaly that had plagued the expedition had returned with a vengeance. Shaking his head, uncertain now of everything, Rene wandered aimlessly, a pale and bloodied specter haunting the alien hallways.
Graceful alcoves surrounded him, with effigies sheltered beneath them and primitive paintings upon their curved surfaces. He looked at the closest one. Though the style was surreal and the language foreign, he understood the symbols well enough.
For they were those of ancient scripture.
The war in heaven. Two great armadas clashed in the depths of the void, lances of searing red heat and spheres of anti-matter dancing between their silver prows. The battle raged the length of an entire wall, a lurid display of mythical carnage. He saw a thousand worlds set alight by the conflagration, whole systems burning like tinder, fuel to the madness and the pain.
In its wake, emptiness. The next alcove showed a galaxy bereft of life, the charred husks of planets circling their dying suns, drained of energy in the apocalyptic conflict.
He saw the Fleet emerge, three small ships, together containing all that remained from the great dying: the ancestor--gods of the primordial dawn. They searched long and hard, travelling from one blasted hellscape to the next in search of lasting refuge.
And so at long last they found Arachnea, a virgin planet untouched by strife. They came to sow life in its bleak hollows, to make a home for their children, a peaceful place far from the ravages of a war so ancient they themselves had forgotten its cause. Then they set their Divine Engines to work. The Amit had carved effigies of these machines out of lumps of azure marble. Rene touched their smooth flanks, admiring at the workmanship. They were shaped like squat little men, with massive hands and domelike heads. Where they had walked, the earth had moved aside for them. They carved the channels with their feet, flattened the hills with blows from their fists. They dredged up fountains of molten lava and shaped them into a thousand bejeweled islands. They wove giant webs of glass as strong as the pillars of the earth and stretched them out across the sky to shield the world from the jealous eyes of the twin suns, Raelu and Sardec.
It was in the course of their work the Divine Engines shattered a mountain and unearthed the Amit, the first true inhabitants of Arachnea. They had arrived centuries before the ancestor—gods. The painting showed the Amit stumbling out of a rent in their tunnels, hands held up against the sunlight that no longer scorched their pale, waxen skin. The first thing they saw in their brave new world was a towering behemoth of burnished metal, wreathed in fire and smoke. In terror they had fallen to their knees before it, begging for their lives.
Rene nodded. All of this was familiar. He walked over to the next depiction, expecting to see the ancestor--gods recoiling in disgust, then swiftly recovering and obliterating the insectoid creatures with deadly rays of light, driving them scuttling back into their foul hollows beneath the earth. For it was written that the Amits were the offspring of vague, unholy sorceries, and could only know evil. Indeed, the war in heaven had been fought over similar themes. They could not be suffered to live. But what he saw instead shook him to his very core.
The ancestors came down from their mighty steeds, lifted the Amit to their feet, and embraced them. Quickly Rene ran through the rest of the alcoves, mind raging against the truths he now saw before him. From then on, the work deviated from scripture so much so that he could only piece together their meaning with difficulty.
The ancestor--gods debated among themselves as to what to do with the Amits. This was not the first time they had come across life other than their own, and it was clear that this time they were cautious in their approach. Some advocated for bringing the race to total extinction, but most agreed that best way forward was a peaceful coexistence, reasoning that they had much to learn from the Amits, who had survived the conditions of Arachnea for millennia without the need for terraforming. The ancestor--gods felt guilt over stealing Arachnea from its original inhabitants and wished to make amends. And so a bargain was struck between the races.
The Amits would allow the ancestor--gods to make changes to the world. To correct the tilt of its wayward axis, to vent huge plumes of inert gases from the hot womb of the earth and to seed life forms from long-dead Terra. In return, Man would change the Amit as well. They would grant them strength and cunning, broods beyond number, and bodies hardened against pain and suffering so they too could be as the gods were.
The plan proceeded towards fruition. Both sides were content as the final pieces of the great work fell into place. But unknown to Man and Amit alike, the specter of war had never really left the Fleet. It had hidden away in dark holds within the hearts of men, and there it had whispered of want and of desire, of the beauty of the virgin world and the lust to claim it.
Some of the ancestor--gods resented their share in the great work. They chafed at the fact that they, the superior beings, had to deal with their vassal Amits like equals, exchanging their powers for the mere right to live on the planet that they had rightfully settled.
And so they began to snuff out the Amit in their millions, burning them out of their homes with heat rays that swept clean entire colonies.
Soon two sides were at each other’s throats. The honorable ancestors who had kept to their word fought a bitter war against their prideful kin amidst the ruin of their unfinished works. In the skies at night, the Amit watched as the madness unfolded, as stars appeared and vanished overnight, and great balls of flame came bursting down through the void to crash into the broken earth. At last, as their weapons lay spent and broken, they then turned the Divine Engines against one another. Once the instruments of peace and creation, they soon tore the landscape apart with the fury of their duels, trading blows that sent impacts shuddering deep into the scorched earth.
The Amit were afraid, and betook themselves to the deep places, where the wrath of the gods could not find them. But this was to be their doom. Eventually the changes wrought in the bodies of the Amit made them strong and durable enough the endure the apocalyptic conditions of the surface. But as the ancestor--gods fought and died on the surface in cataclysmic struggle, their magic died with them. The Amit themselves became trapped, betrayed by their own changing flesh. They became unable to revert to their previous forms, and so were forevermore consigned to lives of darkness in their lairs beneath the earth.
Now, Arachnea was unsuitable for both man and Amit alike. The ancestor--gods had become madmen, so overtaken by their hatred for each other that they had cast themselves back into a dark age from which there would be no return.
The Amits emerged into the gloomy wreckage of their planet and starved. Until, that is, they came upon the remnants of a battleground. Huge forces of men had clashed and died, leaving their bodies to rot upon the cold ground. In their desperate hunger, the Amits began to eat.
And they found the meat of the gods to be good. That war, a holy act most strange and terrible, had filled their bellies with meat, this they understood. That gods themselves judged war to be a just course of action was evident. And since all that remained of the gods were a race of thieves and murderers, it was judged that to make war upon them was both just and good.
Rene came to the last alcove. It depicted the final resting place of the Divine Engines, whom the Amit had buried beneath the mountains out of fear, sealing them away from the surface so that they would never again walk the earth.
A great square plaque of shining steel and copper was laid into the stone. To the Amit it was only a mark of some kind, a symbol whose meaning was long forgotten, but Rene felt an odd connection to it. He traced its edges with a blood-stained hand, and realized it was not a square, but a rectangle, and one whose dimensions he faintly recognized.
He took out Prota’s pendant and pressed it into the crevice.
There was a hiss of pneumatics as the great square door to his side gave way. Light fixtures hummed into life through powers unknown. He stepped gingerly into the soft glow.
“Greetings Ensign,” came a disembodied female voice, “Welcome to the Topographical Oversight and Reconstruction Unit (T.O.R.U.). What are your commands?”
A Divine Engine. The Amit had found it and built an entire civilization around it. This behemoth, this secret mountain of metal was what his compass had been steering towards all this time. A giddy sensation flowed through him. In his stupor he passed his hands in front of his face, examining the lines of his palms and the action of his fingers.
A nimbus of light played over him, reading his gestures.
“Command noted. Activating neural pairing.”
The door closed shut with a creak behind him. Steel pinions reached out and wire nodules grasped him, ran painlessly through his eye sockets and into his brain. All at once he could feel the machine coming to life after its long dormancy, reactors coils thrumming with an ancient power that would not be denied.
He straightened his back.
The outpost away fell away from him in a cloud of dust and rubble. He strode forward, kilometers tall, a shining colossus of star-metal. He glanced down, saw the multitudes of the Amit streaming about the shattered mound. He watched them for a moment, saw them waving their arms in speechless terror at the sudden apparition.
For the first time, he pitied them. They were unaware of their own savagery, of their own hideousness, even. They did not know the doom that awaited them, of the lengths the Fleet was prepared to go in order to secure its final victory.
But there was nothing that could be done. Mankind could no more change themselves than could the Amit. Rene felt the weight of history bearing down upon his shoulders. Though a different world and a separate time, the same inexorable force drove them towards the same tired conclusion.
But perhaps the sooner it was over, the better. He lifted his foot and brought it down. Once, twice, three times until nothing was left moving below. Then he swung away, the ground quaking beneath him.
So, it was through humanity that the Amits had come to know of war? Well then, today he would show them that they had much left to learn. He turned northward, a god astride the earth, and lumbered towards Mound Euler.
