Chapter 11 The Year of Judgment.

We rush back to the port amidst a chaos of fast-talking coms, blaring alarms, and panicking ships. Sethri leaves with anxious officials while the rest of the crew piles in a dockside bar, stuck to the nearby screens where the apocalypse is unfolding. We don’t remove our suits.

There is an unspoken agreement between us. If the station is lost… we go. And for twenty-seven long minutes as we watch camera footage of the tide of flesh overwhelming entire districts, it looks like it might be. And yet, even wounded, even with Might and Law decapitated by the bomb alongside their cadre, and despite the millions of dangerous creatures assaulting it, Enderlith resists. Patrician families mobilize with their personal guard, creating bastions inside the beleaguered districts, their Elders killing creatures by the thousands. Several orders of the Sallurian warrior monks form the bulk of a battle line. The flesh golems work overtime to isolate and condemn passageways, closing paths that had remained opened for millennia. Martial sects and mercenaries shore up the defenses. Together, they stabilize the line. The tide hits a high mark and, in an ocean of blood, it withdraws. For now.

The entire battle lasted only five hours but it was a hecatomb, with civilians making up most of the fatalities. Sethri gathers us a little later in our mess hall. His tone is dark.

“Look, folks. War is upon us. Founder knows, the Year of Judgment is always a mess, but…”

He shakes his head.

“Anyway, all the salvage missions have been canceled. I’ve been thinking about what we can do. I think I’ll volunteer the ship for rescue and transport missions, what with the Patricians paying us. SilSil?”

“My… I’m sorry. My queen is on the other side of the station, past… those things. Things. I need to return to my family.”

“I will join the guards,” Stone sighs. “Again.”

There is some hesitation with Vargo, her large eyes hesitating.

“It’s ok girl,” Sethri says.

“I will go with Stone.”

The large man doesn’t react but I feel shock, gratitude, and then fear. It’s clear to me Stone knows how to fight while his friend probably doesn’t.

“What about you, Steev?”

It’s my turn to hesitate.

“Maybe there is a need for people like me. I need to do some research first,” I eventually reply. “Find who would have a need for unawakened.”

“Then do so. You guys can stay or return here whenever you like. My door will be open to you. Just… keep it clean, won’t you?”

We smile a bit, exhausted.

“Right. To bed first, then tomorrow we leave. Good luck everyone.”

***

To my immense and pleasant surprise, we are not fucked. Not quite yet. Enderlith may be a shit place to raise a child apparently, but it’s still home to a large number of powerful awakened. The flesh beings get pushed back out of a few key locations the following day, after which the potato beings I met before organize to quarantine entire compartments with heavy blast doors. The tide is channeled towards kill districts manned by a variety of factions I learn about by following the defense feed on my computer when we have a free moment. The Sallurians make up most of the frontline since the templars and soldiers of Enderlith were mauled by the explosion, their avatars lost and ranks decimated. Martial sects, mercenaries and depths explorers shore up the defenses where needed. Support and research come from great Patrician families and a group called the Flesh Crafter guild, which apparently is a thing here. All of this I learn from the news because I am no one, just one more cog in a dying machine fighting against inevitability. For a while, it looks like we might make it but then a district falls during the night, one that is deep within our lines. Then another. The front line buckles and we lose another two districts and a lot of people.

When the authorities call for soul awakened, I volunteer.

***

The gate opens three meters wide and no more. A group of warriors appears first to cover a line of civilians advancing into the quarantine center, a smaller district once used as a logistical stop for deliveries in the spires. I pull at the collar of my gray uniform, trying to look inconspicuous among the other soldiers and failing. All of them are awakened of the third order.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Also the uniform looks like a robe from some Chinese historical drama. I take comfort in the fact I won’t be mistaken for a bobby. I’d be absolutely gutted otherwise.

“Slow down. Triple file,” a low, gravelly voice warns.

Tor is the leader of our small checkpoint. His Sallurian tattoos form blue lines across his naked chest and arms. The refugees obey with commanding speed which I’d do as well given the industrial flamethrower standing at the tip of the killzone. The company that made my Defender wand, Verrine Manufactorium, apparently opened its armories to the newly formed Defense Council so at least we have weapons. Not that it matters for me since I won’t be doing the fighting. I’m here for something else. Without prompt, I extend my perception towards the slowly advancing civilians. Their souls are wary, frightened, yet also hopeful. Each one beats with the thoughts of its owner. And then there is another hidden behind a simple cart, wearing the guise of a flesh golem. People tend to ignore them because they’re ubiquitous in the mazes of Enderlith’s titanic frame. I don’t. A golem’s soul is normally cold and structured, closer to machine than to man. This one is a vortex of emotions, many of them contradictory. More importantly, the soul has roots. It is connected to something beyond sight like the shoot of some ancient tree.

I have never told the others, but there is something tempting about that soul. Something strangely beautiful, like a colorful moth or the vivid red of freshly spilled blood. Without moving, I reach for the minds of Tor and the guards around him including Stone. They must allow it because I am not strong enough to force a link. Once we are bound, I send them the mental image of their target. They do not look at it. Instead, they start moving along the lines as if inspecting the refugees’ belongings. The poor sods form a weird and eclectic bunch, most of them some variant of human dripping with sweat and concern. They carry bags filled with their belongings, or sometimes tired children who no longer have the strength to stand. There are also pets which I check as well. I finish my inspection just as Tor and his retinue get close to the false golem.

I don’t see Tor move, only the flesh golem slam against the back wall before exploding in a wave of fleshy limbs reaching for shocked refugees. Tor is there, deflecting them with his naked flesh which I maintain is a shit idea. A woman in a red robe extends her arms. Twin fire snakes fall upon the flesh creature, roasting it. It twitches once or twice before the soul is snuffed out.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Third one today,” Stone grumbles.