Behemoth
Lo now, his strength is in his loins, and his force is in the navel of his belly.
He moveth his tail like a cedar: the sinews of his stones are wrapped together.
His bones are as strong pieces of brass; his bones are like bars of iron.
-PAIN HATE DEATH HATE POWER HATE PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAI-
-silence-
His eyes opened.
It was a long time before he moved. He lay there, in the cool dark depths of the blasted crater, enjoying the quiet.
It was only by the stars that hung perpetually over this planet that he could tell where the crater ended and the sky began. By their dim light he could see debris scattered within arms reach: shattered ceramic plating, twists of blackened metal, hard lumps of carbonized flesh. He rolled an eye downwards lazily, still loathe to move. From the looks of his tattered armor and the charred mess underneath, some of it had been his own.
Still he lay motionless. Whatever explosion had knocked him unconscious had, for whatever reason, lent him respite from the voices that plagued him.
But in time, the voices returned
-hate death pain hate power power hate-
and, though weak, they could not be ignored forever. With a reluctant heave, he rolled slowly to his feet. He could sense, in an abstract fashion, the way scraps of metal were crushed under his heavy soles, the puffs of atomized soil as he clawed his way up the pit walls.
It was difficult going, despite his prodigious strength. With every crawling step the earth crumbled and slid beneath him, sending him back down half a pace. The wounds in his gut made themselves heard with a dull ache. But he advanced, slowly, propelled by whatever driving force
-hate pain pain hate death-
had brought him this far.
And then he reached up, clawing for another handful of gravel, to find empty air. With one last great effort he pulled himself from the crater and fell forward onto virgin ground. He paused, hoping that with the end of his effort would come the same silence he found in the pit.
-hate power hate hate pain-
He stumbled to his feet.
With a great, slow pace that set the earth to tremble, he began to walk, grimacing as the ruin of his stomach throbbed with every step.
He wasn’t worried. It would grow back.
It always had.
There was space in his head now, space he had not had to himself for a long, long time. Normally it belonged to the voices. But they were softer now
-hate pain death death power pain-
and he found that where they had been, there was finally room to think.
To remember.
There was a recruiter, so long ago. Shining medals against a matte, crisp uniform. Charming for the ladies, chummy for the men. Standing by the welfare line, preaching to the crowd.
“Son, the army will take care of you,” he said, grasping their shoulders, his eyes honest and compassionate. With his gleaming teeth, solid build and straight-edge posture, he seemed almost unnaturally vibrant and healthy to the unwashed masses.
“When you enlist” (no ‘if’, never ‘if’, it was always ‘when’) “we will take you and train you to be the very best: body, mind, and soul. It may be tough, sure, but we never got anywhere by taking the easy way.” The words would ring out, almost accusingly, over the crowd. “If you can stand the heat, the army will set each and every one of you up with a job, a home, and most importantly, the will to succeed.”
He’d pick a mark then, someone not too ragged but not too clean. Desperate, but not sick or jonesing or old. He’d level that clear, honest gaze on you and look straight through to your soul.
“It’s hard, but it’s simple,” he said, “like all things worth doing. You give yourself to the army, lay your life on the line for your people, and we will take care of you. You have my personal word on that.”
It had seemed reasonable at the time.
He wasn’t sure how long he had been walking. It was impossible to tell by the sky; there was no sun to rise and set, and its constellations were a mystery to him. Impossible to tell by the land, too. The wide, windswept plains of dull purple and blue had no real landmarks except the occasional outbreak of rolling hills. It was possible, he thought, that if he walked far enough, the first landmark he found would be the crater he set out from.
No way to tell from his body, either. “Fresh” was not the word to describe it, but he felt no more tired from his long march than when he had started. Already his wounds had begun to knit themselves closed.
The only means he possessed to measure time passed was by the gradual diminishing of the voices. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, their insistence lessened, and bit by bit he found more room for his own thoughts. Occasionally they would return in full strength, making him stumble with their intensity
-HATE PAIN HATE HATE DEATH HATE POWER HATE-
but every time they died down, the quiet they left was all the more blessed for it.
For the first time in (what was it? Years?) he could explore the full range of his senses. He felt the weight of his grossly swollen muscles, the unnatural strength within them. He drew in a deep breath, relishing the burn as his lung implants overclocked to process the massive intake of toxic air. The wind sent sparking pinpricks across his toughened skin.
He found that he could count all the points where his armor had been riveted into his flesh, by the way they tugged ever so slightly as he moved. By the pinching where his skull met his spine, he knew there were implants there, squirreling their wires deep into his brain.
He tried to remember how they had gotten there.
“What each and every one of you needs to understand,” the drill-sergeant shouted, “is that as of your induction yesterday, you belong to the military. What rights and liberties you currently possess are those the army has determined it is convenient for you to have, and are liable to change should we see fit.”
The drill-sergeant wore few medals, and he was not as physically impressive as the recruiter. But he made up for it in presence: something undefinable in his words, his movements, a control over his audience that warped attention towards him like a magnet.
“Over the next year of training we will evaluate you for your optimal role in the military. Should you be found to possess an intelligent mind, you may find yourself working in logistics. Should you be found to be psychically gifted, you may find yourselves in the Psy-ops division. Should you be found to possess no talents at all, you may find yourself starting a glorious career scrubbing floors.
“The point being, this army is going to take you, establish your most efficient use, and take whatever steps necessary to optimize you towards that path. And rest assured, we will find a use for you.” For the first time in his speech, he smiled. “The army takes care of its own.”
With it all laid out so thoroughly, who could argue?
He caught himself humming, some tune heard long out of memory, and stopped. God, when was the last time he had hummed, or sang, or whistled? He supposed that with his monstrously altered mouth, humming was likely the best he could do.
He tried to return to it, but the tune had drifted back into the fogs that clouded so much of his mind. Then he was alone again, except for
-hate power pain hate death hate-
the voices.
“You’ve got a remarkably unremarkable profile here, soldier,” said the officer. He didn’t have any medals. Turns out the army only made the brightest and shiniest medals for the most mundane of achievements, so a recruiter could crank them all out and be trawling the streets by the afternoon. Anyone who had heard of this officer didn’t need medals to know what he’d done.
“Average intelligence,” he said, “sub-average constitution, marginal psychic potential, no genetic anomalies to speak of. No commendations or disciplinary actions.” He stabbed each offending metric with the back of a pen. “Submissive to authority.”
“There’s only one remotely unusual nugget in that ordinary head of yours, soldier.” He flipped the pen, circled a sentence in red. “A Xenophobia score of zero, by our standard scale. Seems there ain’t no part in you gets scared silly by what’s different.
“Now, xenophilia does not normally have a place in the business of killing the enemy. But we’ve found soldiers with high Xenophobe scores to have an equally high rejection rate on augments, prostheses, and body alterations of all kinds. They just can’t accept the change. And that gives you an opportunity.”
He leaned forward. “Soldier, I think there’s a promising future for you in Biotech.”
It had been an order, not a question.
The clean, even ground had given way to broken earth, in lines stitched neatly across the landscape by heavy cannon fire. They were divots torn into topsoil, nothing like the great crater he’d woken up in, but some were knee deep and they slowed him down.
Over the crest of the next hill he found one of his own, a hulking corpse marking where the lines roughly converged like an asterisk. He came closer, until he could smell the bitter cocktail of chemicals seeping from the ravaged body.
The enemy had caught it in the open, unprotected. With only small aircraft to bring to bear, they had run strafing runs at it again and again, until not even its monstrous vitality could sustain the assault. Then, judging by the patterns, they had run a few more, just to be certain.
He stopped there, and laid a hand awkwardly on the thing’s back. The voices still spurred him
-hate death power death hate death-
onwards, but he resisted the pull for no reason he could coherently explain. He only knew that it was important that he stayed, at least for a little while.
A long forgotten sensation rose within him as he looked at the body, burning, quick and intense, before dying away. Curious, he looked again, trying to find the trigger for the feeling, like prodding a toothache.
The massive head, stuffed to bulging with augments. The chest, riddled and chewed. The hands, gnarled and twisted and so very like his own
-sorrow-
There it was! He tried to process the thoughts that set off the burst of sensation.
-this thing is like me-
-this thing is dead-
-sorrow-
Again.
-this thing is like me-
-this thing is dead-
-now only I am like me-
-I am alone-
-sorrow-
Again.
-this thing is like me-
-this thing is a monster-
-I am a monster-
-sorrow-
Over and over he prodded the pain, relishing it even as his eyes burned, his throat tightened and his chest throbbed. He took in great shuddering breaths and gasped them back out, convulsing with the strength of the emotion.
When it was over, he did not feel better, but felt more whole than he had before. He stayed by the body for a bit longer, but it evoked no more emotion, and the voices
-hate death pain hate power death hate-
still pulled on him. He began his slow march once more.
He hung suspended in a tank of warm, amniotic liquid. A dozen or so tubes wormed into his raw flesh, hooked up to expensive machines that beeped and whirred. They had not begun in earnest upon him, but already they had taken his voice, his sight, his careful hands; the sovereignty of his thoughts.
It was not xenophobia, not a tantrum against his own body, but rather a horror of what had been taken from him that caused his fits of thrashing; churning up a storm of bubbles, screaming incoherently through his rebreather until the drugs pumping into his warped frame stole his rage away. He dangled limply from the restraints, numb, listening to the scientists outside the tank.
“It should stop the fits,” one said. He couldn’t tell who; an incomplete vision-enhancement procedure had scabbed his eyes over with cataracts. “The drug amplifies hypnotic suggestion routines, normally a cascading series of simple emotional impulses, and a coded signal can activate or change out routines at any time.” It was hard to hear the voices clearly through the liquid, but he’d had a long time to practice. “With some fine-tuning, the Xenophobia factor should be a non-issue.”
“Let’s hope so,” said the other. “Do you realize if this works, it’ll completely revolutionize the industry? A brand-new form of warfare.”
“Well, not completely new,” the first scientist said.
“No?”
“Plenty of ancient myths have demigods.”
He tried to fight, tried to think through the thick wool filling his mind, but now there was a sting as yet another wire entered his skull and
-HAPPY PEACE SLEEP HAPPY PEACE HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY-
It took another age of walking before he found the enemy.
This was a full-fledged battlefield, no isolated crater or strafing skirmish. Bombing runs had chewed the land to pieces. Aircraft lay like beached, gutted whales. He passed one or two of his titanic brethren among the wreckage, but they held no more power over him and he moved on.
The enemy lay piled along the trenches, dozens of corpses packed in where they had made their stand. Their bodies were twisted and broken. Blood seeped from where their shells had been cracked.
At the edge of the trench, a single body caught his gaze, lying half out with its neck bent at an unnatural angle. From the depths of its shattered carapace, the starlight shined off a single lifeless eye, staring back.
It transfixed him.
A memory floated up from the rancid depths of his ruined mind. A battle, a gruesome bloody battle, far away on a world beaten to sand by three blazing suns. Laser fire skidding across his hide as he ran, crashing through the enemy line, hearing nothing but
-HATE PAIN POWER HATE HATE PAIN HATE-
the voices as he snatched an enemy and raised the tiny thing to eye level. The soldier, kicking uselessly, staring wide-eyed in terror. He sensed the enemy’s fear.
Savored it.
Then he wrapped his other hand around the soldier’s head and
-HATE POWER POWER POWER-
squeezed.
-pleasure-
Now, reliving the battle, shorn of the overwhelming voices, he recoiled. A wave of nausea rolled over him and he stumbled back, fell on hands and knees. He tried to vomit, heaved with tremendous strength, but his unnatural constitution would not allow it.
Still, he could not tear his gaze from that blue, accusing eye.
Another memory bubbled to the surface. This, a boarding action, cutting out an enemy cruiser as it drifted unsuspecting through the void. He remembered the shriek of engines, the cramped confines of the boarding pod he shared, standing, with two of his brethren. Each course correction jarred the pod, threw him against his straining restraints, but the voices
-PEACE HAPPY SLEEP PEACE PEACE-
kept the three standing patiently, waiting.
Then came the thundering crash, the shudder of breaching charges and the sucking howl of air lost to the vacuum. The restraints popped loose and he left his place, leading the others out to where a mass of enemies stood dumbstruck at the sight of him. They were unarmed, unarmored, completely unprepared for the sudden assault.
He looked down at one, barely coming up to his waist. The creature’s eyes were different, bulging and multifaceted at the bottom of its face, but he could still sense its awe and shock.
And then
-HATE POWER PAIN HATE HATE POWER-
the voices changed.
He gave a great bellowing roar that shook the walls and charged, his brothers close behind. In the small room there was no need to strike; their shoulders set wall to wall, they simply strode forward and crushed the enemy beneath their feet.
He saw the same creature as before, scrabbling desperately at the far wall, struggling even to breathe as the broken bodies pressed against it. He brought a foot up, trailing gore, above the pile of corpses and brought it down on the creature’s back. He heard a cluster of wet cracks.
-pleasure-
On and on they came. Unearthed from a shallow grave, the memories lined up, patiently waiting to stab at him in turn. He was curled up now, hugging his chest, trying to ward off the terrible thoughts. They pierced him regardless. He tried to cry, and realized with a tremor of revulsion that he could not.
An eternity of bloodshed rolled out before him. The voices had gone silent, perhaps ashamed, and in their absence he could see his actions honestly and without illusion. He saw the face of every enemy, saw their death at his hands, felt the pleasure he had taken in it. And throughout it all he could sense a tiny pearl of conscious thought that had helplessly witnessed his violence, fighting and begging and finally just shrieking wordlessly in horror.
When he had reached the end of memory, it began again. Over, and over, and over, while he lay fetal on the ground, sobbing without tears until finally there was silence.
A voice spoke. A new voice, quiet but firm. He was surprised to recognize it as his own.
-you killed them-
-not me, it wasn’t me-
-it was you-
-they made me do it-
-your hands, your body, your raging mind-
-I never chose to kill-
-you chose to allow it-
-I didn’t know what they would make me do-
-yet you chose regardless-
-I gave my life to them-
-and look what they did with it-
-they said they would take care of me-
-they lied-
It was over. He uncurled, slowly, and took to his feet. He stared at the sky and took one long breath to calm the tremors. At long last, it seemed, after a lifetime of monstrosity, he was himself again.
Or at least as much of himself as he had left.
The voices had left him. There was no more instinct to obey or compulsion to follow. He was finally free.
But that was a lie.
He began to walk, one plodding, weary footstep after another, the same direction he had pursued for so long. There was still a goad in him, prodding him onwards, but at least this one he could trust.
At least this voice was his.
Private Sheffen had an itch on her shoulder, which is a terrible situation when it occurs in a sealed combat suit. A ludicrous amount of money went into making suits as form-fitting and impervious as physically possible. To their credit, they succeeded. But it also made it very difficult to scratch.
So there she stood, at the southwest bunker of Scientific Outpost Maharal, attempting to discreetly rub her shoulder against a particularly pointed spot on the wall. So far it only seemed to be making it worse.
“You’re gonna breach the suit, Sheffen, you keep moving like that,” said Private Buckley. His helmet masked any expression, but his face grinned at her over the HUD. Sheffen slumped, defeated.
“Not likely, private,” said Sergeant Gerram, behind them. Both privates jumped to attention. Neither of them had heard him come in. “There’s not much you can do to damage a combat suit short of shooting yourself point-blank. And that’s a bit extreme for an itch.”
“Yes sir,” said Sheffen, and shifted uncomfortably. “Any advice, sir?”
“Avoid hot showers,” said the sergeant, “and moisturize. In this modern age of warfare, proper skincare is an often underappreciated asset.” Even after six months serving under him, Sheffen still couldn’t tell if Sergeant Gerram was messing with her. “Until then: bear it bravely, soldier.”
“Yes, sir.” she said dejectedly.
“Anything on the scanners?”
“Absolutely nothing.” Buckley said. “Just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the week, and month, before that.” He spun the screen to Gerram pointedly. “Maybe a false alarm once in a while might be fun, but there doesn’t seem to be just about anything around here that would set it off. No wildlife beyond the bacterial level, no humans swinging by to say hi, and certainly no enemies-”
-BEEP-
For a split second, the three of them simply stared at the scanner in shock. Buckley recovered first, and snatched up the display. “Movement beyond the ridge,” he said. His gloved fingers danced across the screen. “Pulling up a rough projection now.”
The image that appeared, a crude silhouette of red lines, made Sheffen’s blood run cold. The figure was unmistakeable. No, she thought, not here, why here? The war never came this far north. It was why she’d pushed so hard for the assignment.
“We have contact, repeat contact,” barked the sergeant, patching through to the general network. “Approaching the southwest bunker, ETA three minutes.” He keyed the munitions locker and heaved out a massive assault cannon, manhandling it across the bunker. “Escort team, prep the scientists for evac. Munitions, activate outpost defenses and prime the self-destruct charges. Everybody else, get to the south wall with everything we can shoot.”
Sheffen and Buckley came up beside the Sergeant, nervously mounting guns they’d never fired to the pillbox embrasure. They stared out across the empty plains.
“Sarge,” said Buckley in a low voice, “we don’t have anything on site that can take down one of those things.”
“That’s true, Private,” said Gerram, “we don’t have anything.” He shifted his grip. “But everything just might do it.
“Besides, I don’t see us having much other option. But if you’ve got any ideas, I’m happy to-” he broke off.
It had appeared.
It stood near the ridge’s peak, a black mark set against the purple undergrowth. Sheffen’s mind refused to accept the size of it at first. Her senses insisted that it was a man, just an ordinary man, on a ridge that had somehow managed to move a hundred meters closer.
Then it took a step forward, and she could have sworn, even at this distance, that she heard a tiny thud of impact.
“Wait until it starts to charge,” said the sergeant. “If we can cripple the legs, we might stand a chance once it gets in range of the base.”
They waited, nerves stretched to breaking, as the giant approached. They flinched, almost imperceptibly, at every lumbering footfall. When it had crossed a quarter of the distance, they tensed, ready to open fire as soon as it began the juggernaut charge.
It continued to walk.
They tensed again as it reached halfway. It may not have seen them at first, but now it would surely break into the barreling run that she had seen in the briefing vids, and nothing would stop it then, nothing they could do but fire and fire and-
Still, it continued to walk.
“Something’s wrong” she said. Buckley and Gerram said nothing.
At three-quarters crossed the sergeant opened fire. He did so alone; the privates, green and unblooded, had frozen as the thing’s sheer inhuman size could no longer be rationalized. The cannon roared and bucked in his hands, spitting fire at the enemy.
It didn’t even slow. The cannon fire skittered across its chest in bursts of arcing sparks. What few rounds managed to pierce its armor and skin were sealed up almost as quickly as they entered its flesh. The thing walked on, unperturbed by the onslaught, until it reached the pillbox and the sergeant finally ceased fire, awestruck.
It reached forward, dug its claws deep into the metal, and ripped the entire roof off the bunker without ceremony. It gazed down at the three humans in silence.
Then, as they watched, it fell to its knees before them, hands lowered, head bowed.
They came from the broken bunker, cautiously, radios forgotten, towards him.
He didn’t move, not an inch, even as the leader walked forward, pulled a pistol and pointed it at his head. Or as the smaller soldier moved in front of the gun, arms wide. He couldn’t hear them, but from the way they moved he supposed they were arguing.
Idly, he wondered what they would do to him.
He decided he didn’t care.
END PART ONE