Chapter Fifty-Two - Contact

“The very first--or the one who was the first reported, at least--samurai, was forty-two year old Alfred Prickleback.

He assisted in a local incursion when the governments of the world were still utterly confused as to what was occurring, and successfully repelled what we now know to be one of the weakest incursions on record.

He handed himself in to the authorities afterwards, claiming to have suffered a psychotic break because he kept hearing voices in his head.”

--Vanguards, a history, 2034

***

“Contact,” Emoscythe drawled.

Usually, when someone spotted a massive group of aliens they put a bit of oomph into their words, maybe a bit of excitement. Emoscythe said “contact” with all of the enthusiasm that I’d expect from a secretary saying “next.”

The street below was filled to the brim with aliens. Surprisingly though, they weren’t charging around like mad dogs in a kibble factory. I moved closer to the edge of the roof, stealth systems on so that I’d be just a little harder to notice. Emoscythe was still a few steps back, but I guessed she had some way of seeing over the edge.

“That’s a lot of them,” I said. I squinted at the crowded street. Lots of model threes, some model ones resting here and there. The usual mix of fours and fives, because everyone needed tentacles and tanks in their lives.

What concerned me more was what I couldn’t see. The aliens were crowding around the opening to a parking garage. This wasn’t so much a street as it was a cul-de-sac with access to a couple of parking spaces for land-bound vehicles. One of the buildings across from us was a twenty-floor parking space, for hovercars and normal cars.

“Why aren’t they moving?” I asked.

“They’re protecting something,” she said. “You’ll see this kind of behaviour sometimes, next to a hive.”

“You think they have a hive down there?” I asked.

“Right now? No, it’s a little too early for that. I think we’d have noticed a hive if it was here before this wave started up. The buildings around here are pretty tall, few street-facing stores, so not many cameras, and the road is narrow. I think this might be a spot where the antithesis are setting up a fresh hive.”

“Oh, great,” I said. “So, bomb the entire street until there’s nothing left but ashes, and then salt the earth behind us?”

“That’s an option,” she said. “I have the impression that there might be something else going on here. They’re too docile for being so close to so much action. At the very least they should be scavenging for biomass.”

I pulled back from the edge. “Then what?” I asked.

“I’ll go down and check,” she said. “We can continue talking after that.”

“I’m not letting you go down there on your own,” I said. “That’d be irresponsible.”

She shrugged. “It’s fine either way. I mostly fight close to whatever I’m killing. Can you do overwatch? Snipe them from afar?”

“I... can’t, no,” I admitted. “My aim’s kind of trash.”

“You know, there are things you can do to fix that. Practice, for one. But there are brain mods and body mods to help with your accuracy.” She grabbed her two kama, the blades snapping back into the sticks, and pressed the bases of them together to form a longer stick. Something clicked within, and a three-foot-long blade snicked out of the end. It now looked like she had a sword with a really long handle.

“I know,” I said. “I’m not sure if I really want more shit jammed into my head.”

Emoscythe shrugged. “That’s fair. And entirely up to you. Your meatsack, your choice. But if you can’t do something well, then I’d suggest working hard to find a way around that. I imagine that’s why you use bombs over bullets?”

“Bombs don’t need to be aimed,” I said.

She nodded. Then she walked off the side of the roof.

I gasped and threw myself forwards to catch her, but she was long gone by the time my hand reached out and caught air.

I saw her falling, arms out and legs together. Her clothes flapped in the wind in the three or so long seconds it took for her to reach the ground.

Then she landed goth-boots first on the head of a model five.

The big tanky alien exploded as both feet rammed its skull into the ground. Boots and ground proved tougher than skull, and bits of alien brain-goop poured out across the ground.

The other aliens, of course, noticed.

Emoscythe stepped forwards as if she hadn’t just gone from terminal velocity to no velocity in a blink. One hand swiped to the side with her long-handled sword, a couple of model threes slumping back with bisected spines, while her other hand reached to the small of her back and pulled out an object that writhed and snapped, reconfiguring itself into a handgun. Or maybe it would have been more appropriate to call it a hand cannon, it was nearly as big as my Bullcat, but clearly meant to be held in one hand.

The gun fired, and with that, Emoscythe was sent flying through the air by the recoil.

I blinked. That didn’t seem physically possible. No matter how little she weighed, there was no way a gunshot could send her flying.

Emoscythe didn’t seem to give a shit about my interpretation of physics. She just flipped through the air, sword reaching out to almost delicately separate the heads of a few aliens from their torsos.

“Well, shit,” I said. Emocythe fired again, a loud booming retort that echoed off the tight walls, and again, she flew off in another direction while the aliens in the direction of the blast were ripped apart.

I shouldered my gun, then hopped off the rooftop.

Halfway down, just as my stomach was considering relocating to my throat, my jump jets fired and my fall turned into a slightly gentler tumble. I landed with a heavy thump, asphalt cracking underfoot even as my armour absorbed the impact.

A model three turned my way, obviously confused.

I put the confusion out of its mind with some buckshot.

“Need help?” I asked.

“No. I’m used to death,” Emoscythe said. She kicked a model five into the air, then while it was at the apex of its arc, she cut it in half with a swipe of her sword so fast even my cybernetic eye only caught a blur.

I was a bit more conservative with my attacks, only hitting the aliens farthest from Emoscythe and letting my back-mounted guns do a lot of the work. I did summon a few resonators that I flicked around. They started melting up the dead left in Emoscythe’s wake.

I felt a little useless as Emoscythe chased down the last alien--an unlucky model four whose tentacles wiggled in a panic before she sliced each one apart with a quick, precise cut from her sword.

“We’re done here,” Emoscythe said. She flicked her sword to the side and a spray of blood flew off it and coated the ground. Somehow, she was entirely spotless.

“I guess so,” I said. My ears twitched towards the opening to the underground parking lot. “There’s more down there.”

Emoscythe glanced at the entrance. “Do you want to look into it? We have the time to spare, and it might make everyone’s lives easier later to have one fewer hive to deal with.”

“I could bring the building down on top of whatever’s in there,” I said.

“Could be something valuable that’s keeping the antithesis’ attention. I’m sorry, I like more precise attacks. Indiscriminate bombing makes me somewhat uncomfortable and goes against my style.”

“Nah, it’s all good,” I said. “Not everything’s for everyone.”

She nodded. “So, have you considered implementing your stylistic choice with your weaponry? It wouldn’t be difficult to do for melee-type weaponry. Claws are a cat’s natural weapon, and I imagine that fangs could be arranged.”

“Uh, yeah, I had claws. Never really used them though,” I said.

She nodded. “That’s interesting. What about the sword?”

I glanced at Void Terminus, hanging off my hip. “What of it?”

“It has a cat charm, which is cute, but it’s not really on-theme, is it?”

“Why does that matter?” I asked. “Not like my bombs meow before going off.”

She frowned. “I suppose it doesn’t matter in the short term. My goal is to ensure that every samurai leaves a legacy behind. It’s much easier to do that when they have a clear image and style that they adhere to. It can be done for everyman-type samurai too, but then it becomes more about... public relations and great accomplishments. Not that you should avoid either one of those. You have the potential to do great things, I think.”

“Thanks,” I deadpanned.

She sniffed. “Longbow’s an example of a samurai with no clear gimmick. He’s done well for himself, I think.”

“He one of your projects?” I asked.

Emoscythe rolled her eyes. “I don’t have projects. I have friends, and a subject I’m passionate about. That’s all.”

“So you’re not going to force me to get fur-covered armour and go ‘nya’ whenever I speak?”

“No,” she said. “I advise and help where I can. I don’t push things on people. Like I said, I’m not a bitch.”

I do like the idea of making you ‘nya’ though.

***