Frontier Fantasy

The fruits of one's labor were often the most delicious treats.

Precious metals, harvested directly from Ershah's caves and put into the Creator's factories, were produced solely by Rook and her harvesting squad's mining efforts. Days of hot mining lasers, damp caverns, and the exertion of her muscles were the sacrifice she made in oath to her chief's vision.

Now, she stood atop the grand walls of his fortress, underneath darkened clouds and donned in her armor, fulfilling the other half of her oath. The data pad in her hand showed hundreds of abhorrent crawling out of the entrance of their vile hive like a river, taken from a reconnaissance drone's vision. Flying abominations charged toward the flying contraption, while ballistae-scorpions lobbed ivory javelins between with reckless fury.

But their reaction was far too late. She had the drone's coordinates.

A most excellent notification appeared at the top of the screen, written in both Malkrin script and Martian-English:

'FIRE MISSION APPROVED - Artificer.'

The Head Harvester nodded to the inanimate data pad and turned to her squadmates around the multi-launch-rocket-system. "Prepare for fire. Coordinates J-one-one-H-nine-three-four."

The addressed miner took a knee by the control pad, just outside the rocket artillery's swivel ring. She swiftly input the coordinates, confirmed the munition lock, and jogged out of the immediate pressure distance.

Rook crossed her arms over her ammunition-laden chest and awaited the grand rumbling. The turret rotated toward the expected angle and rose into the air with the whir of its massive, mechanical drive. Like a monolith of the Mountain, it stood tall and menacing, forged with the unmatched strength of alloy and empowered with the glorious, destructive touch of the star-sents' war.

The briefest ignition flame and a 'thump' of the ground sent the first of forty rockets screeching into the clouds. Every repetitive blast shook the very ground with its fury. They clapped with thunder and soared with the speed of the gods. Their roaring fires turned into glaring balls of orange in the gray sky, following along their vast trajectory.

It was never cold around star-sent weaponry.

Rook looked back at her data pad and found its feed to be replaced by another reconnaissance flyer, this one more distant than the first. The abhorrent swarmed around what she assumed to be the initial, fallen drone, ignorant of the flame and destruction awaiting them. Her squadmates similarly huddled beside her to watch.

Clustered napalm munitions did not work without the precious metals the harvesters carved from the ground, so by the Mountain Lord's guiding hand, they had the right to observe the glorious destruction they enabled.

The first rocket came down with the force of lightning, cracking into dozens of fiery bombs that crashed into the field of carapace and claw. Their immediate shrieks of death were answered by another wave of napalm that washed across the hive's entrance.

Rook could hear the distant explosions cascading as the rockets impacted one after another in an endless beat to a beautiful song. The footage only added to the blessed nature, showing her the mangled corpses and billowing smoke of their burning remains as an entire coordinate was reduced to fire and craters.

There would be no biofuel to harvest, and even less from the blood-moon after this first strike.

But materials were not the focus of today. Today was dedicated to the utter damnation of the rancid beasts and the success of the Sharkrin, one salvo at a time.

The Head Harvester took one last good look at the sea of fire on screen, pleased to see it spreading down the mouth of the hive entrance, and put the data pad away into her chest rig. She gripped the miner's shoulder to her side. "There is no time to waste. Let us ready another round and watch these wretched hives burn!"

With that, she led her harvesters down the wall elevator and toward the stacked napalm munition at the bottom. Every second of labor she exerted was an honor on her frills and success for her people. She carried the weight of the rockets and thrust them into the artillery turret. Round after round, with her sisters by her side, they prepared another sequence of divine indignation

She found herself by the parapets once more, flicking through the drone feeds and finding another swarming hive mouth. Another ripe target.

The fire was as hypnotizing as always in its dual nature of warmth and death. Its charm would never dull in her eyes. A power so God-like, yet entrusted with her… How the elements of the ground and air could be formed into a weapon she could wield still baffled her. It was foolish, and she saw the factories that produced them every day, but she struggled to find where it added up. How the gods were somehow not directly involved in this incomparable force.

Javelin spoke of their metal 'tanks' and great drone fleets, but Rook still could not fathom what war looked like for the star-sents. What death she rained down on the abhorrent was 'centuries old' and 'as advanced as spears,' per Artificer Tracy's description. At first, it left the Head Harvester in awe, surging an excitement at seeing her labor righteously ensure the future of the Sharkrin.

But, when that flame of inspiration burnt out and left only what ignited it it, she felt… dread. Not that she felt a lick of sympathy for the abhorrent; no, their slaughter was virtuous, and their methods were necessary.

It was where they went after that startled her. What weaponry would be put into her hands next? How many vast sums of material would be purified, melted, mashed, and formed into her chief's industrialized machine of war? How long was it until they were utilizing 'new' firearms?

What happened when the abhorrent were made irrelevant? Where did that leave the other enemies of the Sharkrin?

Harrison said he wanted no part in killing Malkrin, but it was by his hand that Rook saw brain matter for the first time. The revolver he used was even 'older' than the rockets already deemed 'ancient.'

She did not blame him. The Inquisition was not willing to lend him their approval. Nor was the Creator willing to bend the knee.

It was what must be done. If the others saw the Sharkrin as foes or fools yet to be brought in line, their independence must be drawn in the sand with blood.

And Rook… Rook was loyal. She would hold her oaths to her dying breaths; there was no doubt in it. However, she did not choose the applications of war entrusted in her. Whether it be a browning, a stick, or the stars themselves, his orders were her command.

She could only pray the Mountain Lord looked away for what happened next.

- - - - -

The Head Harvester felt a cold drop fall onto her snout between the chops of her helmet. Its frigid touch froze her for a moment, sliding down the size of her muzzle. She looked up to the gray sky and felt another hit her nose.

Rain.

Of course, tonight was to be another blood-moon. The cold droplets were always present for the grand act—a terrible counterpart to the warmer cave beads of water.

Rook took her helmet off and reached into the back of her neck guard, pulling the hood up to her ears. She unfastened the frill and horn covers, allowing the clear, water-resistant fabric to stretch over her head and along her snout.

She donned her helmet once more and looked down to her data pad. The screen was slowly covered in liquid dots, but they did not obscure the latest notification.

'FIRE MISSION APPROVED - Artificer.'

= = = = =

The knight's feast was not so meager this night. There was a slab of meat from an unusual animal hunted in the otherworldly zones out west and a firm helping of cave roots from beneath the mountain. All of it had been piled upon the wooden board. She understood why; pangs of hunger would only hold the guardswomen back this evening.

But this yellow-skinned warrior cared not for ulterior motives. She happily took her tray toward the central pyre and sat down on the mud beside her fellow militiawomen, hoping to offset the frigid rain pattering her simple helmet. The knight witnessed a few glares of jealousy as she produced her own hand-carved, two-pronged utensil to eat. Yet, very few of the others spoke as they ate the first filling meal in months.

Not many banished spoke in the first place. What was there ever to talk about in public? Every day was the same as the last, only colder. Anything exciting was already known by anyone in the same profession—take the armor they received twenty odd days ago, for example—and any new tidings were usually shared in one's quarters with their closest comrades… Tonight was no different. Not even the crimson night could change the shackles of exhausting routine.

Wake up. Train until midday. Eat their first meal. Assist lumberjack labor. Train more until sunset. Pray to be on the morrow's war party for better rations. Find comfort by the fire artifacts and the commiserating silence between one another. Sleep until the sun rose again. And repeat.

It never got any better, save for the rare opportunity to work for better rations. However, the fact that every other scout, militiawoman, or warrior struggled just the same was enough. It was hardly a community, but they picked one another up when the time came. They supported their sisters and brothers alike with all they could.

All the yellow-skinned female wanted at that point was a rest on the ninth day and a real priestess to give a sermon, not the barking commands of the paladins. The priestess of her village spoke highly of the very same convictions she embodied. The knight may be banished, but her actions showed faith in producing labor, community, and prosperity for her people. Every day, she tore her muscles taut to prove to the Mountain Lord that she was redeemed and worthy to climb to his palace.

Her loyalty would not go unnoticed.

- - - - -

The knight's prayers must have been answered.

She could brave the cold if the paladins needed her to. She could stand guard for an entire day. And, she could fight until the sun went up. All she needed was fire and the order.

Even with a leather coat, she despised only one thing: the rain. It was ignorable by the fire artifacts and largest of pyres, but on this crimson night, with the black clouds suffocating the red moon, there was little to help her from the storm behind the palisades. Only torchlight and the strain of her muscles would keep her warm until the morning.

But… It did not rain over the female-sized stone walls. The militiawoman watched as wisps of white fluttered and whipped in and out of the light around covered braziers. They were as mesmerizing as they were numerous.

She held her cold hand out to catch some of the specks, but only found a frigid droplet in their place. The small flecks danced with the wind, the few that went in front of her eyes revealing their shape as fern-like crystals…

Snow.

She had heard it snowed on the northern islands in the coldest winters, but never had she seen it before. Her amusement was short-lived as a freezing gale cut through her ribs and chilled her very bones.

…At least it was not raining.

The knight shuffled closer to the brazier and focused on the pitch-black abyss beyond the walls. There was no moonlight nor any fire to illuminate the field of chopped trees. All she had was her ears and the vague sense of the abhorrent's hate-filled vital intent.

So, she tuned out the flapping of fabric in the wind, ignored the cold, and stared out into the darkness. The rattle of armor and movement around her was constant. The other banished warriors moved and shuddered through the night. Some part of her was tempted to look over and analyze how the others were coping, but a subtle buzz of a lightning artifact stole her attention.

The militiawoman held her post as the paladin walked behind her along the wall. Her spear was firm in her grasp, and she was still, even as the frozen downpour leaked through her leather coat.

Her loyalty would not go unnoticed.

Time would pass slowly, punctuated by suddenly aggressive winds and fluctuating patterns of snowfall. There was nothing to do but focus and move her muscles, lest ice grow within her blood. It was painful. It was exhausting. It was never-ending.

Only that glorious 'snap' of a distant tree in the night served to light a flame in her. It was soon followed by a noise so utterly confusing to her body; a canon of growls and shrieks pierced the crisp air, sending a shiver down her spine and putting a sway into her leather-armored tail.

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The others' shoulders stiffened as they scrambled to ready themselves.

A slow pattering grew over the wind's howl. Hundreds of spear-like feet stabbed into the ground and pulled wretched, shelled bodies closer to the goal of their evil hunt. There was something else amongst them, a deep recurring noise.

"Guards! Prepare your spears!" Votul'khee growled from along the parapets. "Await the torches!"

A recursive 'twang' and 'thwump' of hand-held ballistas shot from behind her sent a sparse wave of fire arrows across the sky, briefly making their own stars underneath the blackened clouds. The faint illumination crashed into the muddy outskirts in a loop around the colony. Only a few impacted the sprinting swarm.

A few dozen abhorrent approached; nothing she had never seen before. She laid her spear between two stones and angled it toward the ground beneath. The wood in her grasp rattled ever so subtly against its constraints. She assumed it to be the shakes of battle-blood, for she felt the same tremble through her feet.

The knight settled her breath and held her blessed weapon tighter, faith in its forged iron tip… But the vibrations never stopped.

It was not her.

She furrowed her brows and stared out into the nothing between the fire arrows. Every rattle was distinct, a disturbance corresponding to something. It was constant… rhythmic… no different than the march of footsteps.

Her eyes widened as a massive, female-sized pillar of shell and stone crashed into the mud between the dying flames. Another slammed down beside it, letting the orange lights illuminate the underside of a massive beast.

She was frozen as it approached, several rumbling stomps at a time. Vile abhorrent crawled around and beneath the monster like vermin as it powered through the fires and became a terrifying silhouette… and an immediate danger.

Her palms shook. Now, in alarm.

"BEHEMOTH!" Votul'khee roared as the crackle of lightning grew louder. "Spearwomen, hold your ground! The Order will see this infidel broken!"

May the Mountain Lord be her strength.

= = = = =

Harrison laid a palm over the edge of the southern wall, gripping the myco-concrete tightly as the painful contracting of his muscles subsided. His clenched jaw barely managed to distract him from the bubbling fire in his veins until it finally suffused into his muscles.

He sucked air through his teeth and straightened his back. The sensation of a million ants biting his skin washed over him quickly, leaving a frustrating itchiness anywhere he started to sweat.

"Ffffffffffffuck," he hissed. A few blinks brought the world back into his eyes through the lenses of his helmet.

It was pitch-black outside, and the falling raindrops were as thick as his thumb. They endlessly beat against the camouflage tarp above his post. Floodlights and heaters fought against the worst of the night, but the wind still tried to find its way into his armor. Thankfully, he had another source of heat—even if it wasn't physical.

A familiar gloved palm wrapped around his hand and squeezed it, sending sparks of warmth up his arm. His loving paladin looked down at him, her expression covered by a sea-dragon gas mask and spartan helmet. Fire-like glow berry paint spread across the chops from her group-prayer with the spears a few minutes prior. Yet, through the spiritual and steel protection, he could sense her worry.

"I'm good. I'm good," the engineer assured, holding up a palm to placate her.

She silently nodded, her armored tail comfortably wrapping around him. He patted it before pulling out his data pad with a slight tremble in his hand—a side effect which he didn't have any adequate drug to counteract. At least, nothing that wasn't overkill. And, although overkill was the name of the game for defense, he wasn't going to sacrifice the effects of the numerous nootropics, amphetamines, central-nervous-system-activating steroids, whatever the hell Cera gave him, and several other performance-enhancing drugs just to stop a little shaking.

Future health issues be damned, the blood-moon was a present health issue, and not just for himself. He'd take any action to improve the settlement's chances. Even if he was feeling confident, the cards had to be stacked in his favor.

A third of the settlement hadn't seen real mainland combat yet, and it was getting real cold out tonight. Plus, the bugs weren't acting quite right. The heat map on his data pad showed the hundreds of drones Tracy built fanned out in a large, circular grid, but not a single bug beneath them.

He noticed something similar the last few days. First, the hive raid went without a hitch because the entire hive retreated for the first time, resorting to what were effectively guerrilla tactics. Then there was the mobile fighting the other day, where he couldn't find a swarm until he went over ten kilometers north. Every other blood-moon had hordes of monsters crawling around just in the forests around the settlement!

Even today, Rook complained that some of the scouted hives didn't even bother to crawl out of their caves when tempted by the drones. She only managed to nuke five swarms before the once-vicious bugs went elusive on her.

Putting that together, it'd be reasonable to say the upscaled insects had rubbed two brain cells together to know to not fuck with the Sharkrin. But he knew better. He knew these monsters. They weren't scared, nor would this be the last time he'd deal with them.

The bugs were up to something. Whether he should be checking for seismic activity or if they were holding onto their ranks for a larger attack, he didn't know. What he did know was how to over-prepare. He had eyes and ears everywhere, with at least five barrels pointed at every one of three-hundred-and-sixty degrees around the fortress walls. There were retreat failsafes, methods put up to counteract any new species of bug, and enough supplies to last months of siege.

The settlement wasn't going anywhere, and neither was he. All that was left was to wait… and react.

So, he waited. The wind howled and swept through the tarp, eager to rip the heat from him. Time passed slowly, screeching to a halt every time he pulled out his data pad. Nothing changed. He rapped his fingers along his shotgun's belt to a tune he didn't know while the temperature plummeted.

Tracy was always on the radio, constantly giving him updates and answers. Were there bugs in the caves? No. Was there anything above the clouds? No. Is the moon red? Yup. Can you spare a few drones to scan the forest further out? Sure. Is there anything out there? No.

It was probably best to maintain the grid of reconnaissance flyers around the settlement instead of sending them out anyway.

Harrison's legs bounced around with an unspent, limitless energy. It urged him to walk, to run, to do anything other than stand still. His eyes twitched as he watched the edges of the floodlight's reach, where the faint blood-red fog met between white illumination and the pitch black of the night. He had a million excuses to make his rounds and check in on everyone.

But what if the bugs attacked then? What if he was out of position, unable to respond or communicate? He was one of the few with direct access to the heat map.

His feet, although far from anchored, were still moored to the same spot on the wall. The shackles of uncertainty kept him tense and uneasy for God knows how long. He feverishly checked his data pad and often glanced over to see the equally anxious Malkrin absently examine their equipment or watching the storm over the battlefield. At least none of them looked cold.

And it was for nothing. Nothing at all.

Time passed agonizingly slow. He religiously checked his data pad, zipping and unzipping its carry pouch over and over again, hoping for something to change. The uncertainty continued to weigh on him. His breathing never slowed, and his heart pulsed into a brewing headache. He could feel it growing behind his sharpened eyes, exaggerating how bright the floodlights were.

The drugs did nothing to help the passing of time. He could swear he even saw the rain fall slower… and sideways.

What?

Harrison squinted through his helmet lenses to confirm that it was, in fact, snowing. The floodlights caught the flakes' movement, perfectly capturing the constant swirls and sharp turns of the whipping winds amongst the black background of the night.

The motions caught his eye long enough to distract him from the anxiousness growing in his chest. How did he not notice it before?

He tugged the armored tail around his waist and gestured out to the empty battlefield. Shar's gas mask's fire paint glowed as she looked down at him, but he could feel her uncertainty.

"It's snowing. Look."

She gazed out to where he was looking and stared for a few moments. Her silence highlighted the frequent drops of rain pattering above them, reflective of the settlement's heaters producing an excess.

"I guess I should've expected it would sooner or later… Just wasn't anticipating it to be tonight," he absently admitted over the howling winds.

He sensed a moment of excitement in her through her swaying tail, imagining her eyes wide at the sight. But that whimsy was quickly crushed with a cold observation. "Will this affect the drones?"

"Maybe it'll throw them around, but their rotors and batteries are as powerful as Tracy can make 'em," he assured, reflecting her serious tone. "The Harpies won't be affected in the slightest."

"Good." The paladin nodded.

He pulled his data pad out from his side pocket and opened the heat map again… All blue, just like the last time he opened it. This time, he went out of his way to check the drone cameras. Nothing visible on low-light or infrared out north, south… west. There was no movement in the caves either, from what the turrets down there picked up.

Harrison took in a deep breath of stale, gas-filtered air.

God dammit, he actually wanted the bugs to attack, if no other reason than to just get it over with. The constant edge of something continued to constrict around his chest. He felt like he was suffocating in his own body, just waiting for a release of anything; a singular bug coming to the fortress; a hint toward a stealth attack; a damn white flag, even.

But nothing ever happened.

The engineer eventually asked Tracy to send the hunters, who were just about vibrating for combat, to go and scout further out. Hell, when the forests were found to be as dark and empty as the settlement, he had the mechs enter one of the accessible caves.

What did they find? A hive, of course. A hive they knew was there. It was mostly full, save for a few swarms heading anywhere but toward the settlement.

He watched the footage with clenched teeth and an emotionless glare. His fingers gripped tightly around his shotgun. A long exhale didn't help to release the building pressure in the slightest.

They didn't even leave. They didn't even look at the settlement. He waited for hours over the one thing he thought he could expect on Ershah. But no. Why would he ever be free to find some rhythm? Why should his preparation be rewarded?

An immense itch he couldn't quite scratch seemed to snap the final straw he was holding onto. His skin started burning. He boiled under the sheer scorn lashing out inside.

Okay. That was fine. Everything was fine.

Another shaking, exasperated breath put his rational thinking on a lifeline.

If those monsters wanted to hide away, he was okay with it. He was tired of being reactive anyway. Those tastes of the hunt and the satisfaction of wiping out an entire hive were suddenly all he could think of. He was going to get his biofuel one way or another. What did it matter if the bugs put up a rock shell around their hydrocarbon-rich nest? He had all the nutcrackers known to humankind.

Harrison held a finger to the communications button on his helmet. A small 'beep' prompted him to speak slow and flatly. "Change of plans. Do you have the medium fabricator working on anything right now?"

Tracy's confused and anxious voice broke through the radio crackle. ["No? What? Why are you asking me about the fucking fabricator?"]

"We're going on the offensive. I need you to clear the processes of every fabricator we have," he ordered.

["…Say less. Whaddya got in mind?"] she responded with an eager lilt.

He paused, glancing over at the MLRS turrets stationed on the corners of the wall. The last time he went about printing rockets, it was for mass area denial. A flicker of inspiration brought to mind a certain type of warhead he'd found during his perusal of the rocket systems… a weapon he'd been looking to use for a long while.

There were a few faster ways to clear out a tunnel network.

His memory tripped at record speed, bringing together a short and long-term plan for the next few hours—so long as the bugs were content to bite the pillow. Every piece wasn't quite in place yet, but he'd find a way. No one was sleeping tonight, anyway. They had the time.

All that malice inside him fell away, finding better use as a spiteful determination. He radioed to Tracy again, rapping his fingers against his shotgun's housing. "A few things, actually. I'll be back at the workshop in a few, but I need you to start producing nanoscale aluminum and magnesium powder. Use the additive manufacturing first-stage components in the fabricators. Get those ready, and we'll be set."

["Oh…kay? I don't follow, dude."]

"Trust me on this. I think you'll like it."

= = = = =

Rook was exhausted. Her muscles were sore, and her eyes felt strained. But, she persisted. It was the fire in the Creator's voice that drove her further, inspiring energy into her as the sun raced to dawn.

She and her squad pushed machines, carried rocket casings, and ferried resources to and from the workshop for hours. They labored as the others held watch under the tense night. The harvesters carried the burden while the warriors held the spear.

May the Mountain Lord witness her strength and bless these glorious weapons of war.

The final rocket locked into place under her chief's careful eye. He could not overstate the necessity of every precaution, nor would she divert her motions from his exact orders.

"Set?" the Creator yelled over the winds that washed white particulates up and over the walls.

"Set!" she affirmed, pulling the other miner away from the turret.

These weapons were not so stable as napalm. They required care and patience.

For their laborious construction? The results must be exceptional.

= = = = =

Talos' eyes were far beyond sore, as was the custom of all-night blood-moons. Usually the abhorrent would peter out at some point, allowing her and the other mech pilots to sleep… But not tonight.

She swapped her mark-two hunter's vision suite back to low-light vision, bathing the monitor in green contours. She blinked a few times, allowing her eyes to adjust. Snow trickled ahead of her, struggling to maintain a white layer across the vast, flat swamp of the southern reaches.

She walked her mech back a few steps, inching away from the two-kilometer effect radius of the rocket. The fire would not affect her mech, but Artificer Tracy warned of far greater effects than mere burns. The hunter's wide feet let it stand still, even with the added weight of its aerosol-distribution mechanism.

The mech pilot looked up at a different monitor and found the correct drone. Its camera revealed the wide, spotty terrain from above, with each stagnant pool of water as black as night. Only one hill-like structure stood unique amongst the endless array of reeds and mud: a dirt-carved hive entrance.

"Wrap your tails around your seats or something, things might get a little bumpy!" Artificer Tracy gleefully shouted from down the line of battle stations, overly caffeinated off her own concoction.

"Hell yeah!" Rei shouted.

"Bumpy?" Talos questioned, too tired to feel truly worried. She looked down the opposite way to where the male pilots sat. Chef and the shopkeeper, crosshair, silently wrapped their tails around their chairs as asked.

Talos bit her tongue and did the same, eyes glued to the screen. The sudden, recognizable screech of the rocket system firing kick-started her heart once more. She felt a surge of excitement break through her uncertainty as ten warheads, the culmination of the night's effort, were finally launched.

She had no insight into their trajectory, nor any time frame for when they would land. All she could do was watch in anticipation. The black, undisturbed swamp laid motionless under the snow, unsuspecting of what was to come.

"T minus five seconds!" Artificer Tracy called out, a devious smile in her voice. "Here comes the sun, doo duh doo dooooo!"

…Three …Two …One.

A brief frame of the rocket's impact was followed by another split moment of nothing before the entire screen went white. She winced, squinting to make out a spherical blast of white steam growing by the second, the entire marsh flattened.

A great cloud plumed above the wave of overpressure as another struck the ground. A second eruption of pure white evaporated what was left of the water, simultaneously liquifying the ground. The brief moments between blinding light revealed the sinkhole's progress. Every tunnel opened to the air was made flammable, filled with fire, washed with superheated steam, and left without air to breathe.

In the very same kilometer, there was simultaneously a raging peat fire, a lack of water, clouds of debris, and a sudden change in topography. Smoke and steam choked what little was left to see. There was no need to observe anyway. By the might of the Creator's war, there was no more.

The hive, the marsh, and the very air itself had been removed from existence. She sat there in complete, utter silence.

…And Artificer Tracy laughed with glee. Her smile was hauntingly wide, and yet it was undeniably contagious.

"Guess we can just cross that entire coordinate square off the map, huh?"