I swear in that moment it’s ten meters tall. It comes striding across the wreckage like a great fucking golem, holding a cannon in one hand like it weighs a hundred grams, like it weighs nothing at all. The muscles flex and slide across one another with every step; they seem almost organic, but I’ve never seen anything live move quite like that.
It looks like it can take down that ship with a single shot.
It doesn’t, though. The gunship gets its licks in, fires back, hits the golem dead in the chest and not a word of a lie I swear that fucker stays standing. He staggers, rocks back on his heels, almost goes over. But he doesn’t. He keeps his footing, and he brings up that cannon again—I can see now it’s some kind of tricked-out miligun, way too big for mere mortals. He must’ve swiped it off a Taranis or something but he’s throwing it around like it’s a paperweight and the sound it makes, that beautiful sound, gotta be three thousand rounds a minute and the ammo belt’s flapping and slithering through that gun like .30-caliber tickertape.
I’m laughing like the Joker, I’m cheering him on so hard I almost forget I’m dying. He’s my guardian angel, he’s Gabriel blowing his horn against the heavens and that hellship is dipping and weaving and looking for an opening but it’s on fire now, it’s shitting smoke and listing to starboard and it can’t even seem to get a target lock anymore, all that devastating firepower just spraying in these wild arcs through the whole 360, hitting nothing but sea and sky.
Doesn’t blow up a moment too soon, though, because two seconds after it goes down my savior’s cannon is spinning on empty.
I’m kind of laughed out by now. Actually, I’m having a hard time even breathing. Blood pools at the back of my throat. I can barely cough it back up. But Gabriel hears me, even over the roaring of the flames. He sees me, and he comes to me through the smoke and the wreckage with that miligun still spinning in his hand, nothing to chew on anymore but sheer inertia. He seems to notice that after a second, throws the gun away without a second glance, kneels down at my side and stares at me.
I stare back. Dark coppery visor, shiny and opaque; stubby metal snout underneath, some kind of integrated gasmask-respirator thingy. More of that corded gray muscle-armor across the cheeks, held anchored by metal strips running along the edge of the jaw; they meet up like mandibles where the mouth should be.
It’s like being face-to-face with a praying mantis.
He doesn’t say a damn thing for the longest time. I try to—thank you, or nice shooting, or even what the fuck—but those parts don’t seem to work anymore. Finally I hear an electrical hum and a voice comes out.
“Let me guess. You’re my ride out of here.”
Golem. Angel. Cyclops. Robot. Still not sure what he is. It’s surreal. I think maybe I’m hallucinating. I think I’m having a near-death experience.
Looking back, that’s exactly what it was.
He saves me. I don’t know how long it takes. I’m not there for most of it.
I remember movement; I remember being lifted up to Heaven, slung over my hero’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I remember the feel of great bundled cables ratcheting back and forth, biting into my gut. I remember it hurting, at long last. I’m in agony now, I’m flayed nerves and broken bones and guts fed through a wood chipper. I faint from the pain, and the pain shocks me back awake, and then I faint again.
But I’m almost relieved, you know? Almost happy. I’m not dead yet, not yet. I’m still in the world. I can still hurt.
Still can’t scream, though. Can’t make a sound.
I hear him talking. Through the helmet. A voice, filtered through some kind of vocoder; there’s an electronic buzz to it, a machine quality, but it sounds like there’s a real man inside trying to get out. He raises his voice. He rants. He falls silent now and then, like he’s listening. I listen, too, but I never hear anyone answer.
“This is what it was for, then. This is your Master Plan. You always have one, don’t you?
“Yeah, right. Not the clay’s place to question the potter. Except your feet are made out of the stuff just as much as mine, aren’t they? Aren’t they?
“You’re not above it, you fucker. You’re no higher than I am. You may be in me, but you’re not above me.
“Goddamn you. You monster, you parasite. Goddamn you.”
I don’t know if he’s swearing or praying.
Something’s screaming the next time I come to. It’s still not me; I try, believe me. I can barely manage a gurgle. But something’s screaming, and that sound bounces off walls and ceilings and hits me from all sides, tinged with metal.
My hope and my salvation. He’s brought me indoors.
I open my eyes, try to focus, can’t. But the flames are still with us; giant flickering shadows writhe on a wall, and the backlight is orange—except just off to my right, where it’s—wrong, somehow. Artificial. I turn my head just far enough to see the golem playing with a tiny blue sun dancing in his hand. Laser, I realize, and pass out again.
“Wake up.”
Not dead yet. Still not dead.
“Wake up, soldier. Now.”
Same place, different time. Bright dirty sunlight pools on the floor from barred windows high overhead.
I actually feel a bit better now. The pain’s more—distant. That’s good; it means all those nerves sending back reports from my broken fucked-up body have finally cashed it in. It means that maybe I can die in peace.
“Wake the fuck UP!”
Something big and dark and flaccid hangs in front of me. I force my eyes to squint, force my brain to interpret: a skinned carcass, a flayed—
—golem—
Instant focus.
My savior’s been gutted like a fish. It hangs deflated from an overhead beam, split down the middle and scooped clean of its insides. All those high-tech gunmetal muscles dangle limp and unmoving; the interior glistens red as raw meat. Are my eyes fucking up again, or is that butchered carcass bleeding?
“Down here.”
Big black dude. Shaved head, some kind of skintight black body stocking pimped out with white veins. Like a wet suit with a circulatory system. Dirt and blood smeared across his face and for one crazy surreal second I think he has gills, but no; it’s just a bloody gash, still oozing, along the line of his jaw. I concentrate on his shoulder flash until it stops jumping around: AIRBORNE.
He’s got some kind of hypo in one hand. I can feel the tingle, now; he’s just emptied it into my arm.
“Don’t try to talk,” he says. (I almost laugh, but the pain surges back when I try.) “Just let it take hold. You’re gonna make it. You’re gonna make it.”
It sounds like an apology.
He’s not doing so well himself, you know. There’s a trickle of blood threading out of his nose, he’s swaying on his feet, his face is as gray as that wall behind you. One of his eyes is bloodshot, like every capillary ruptured at once. His hands are shaking. His eyes dart around like a bird’s, like there aren’t enough shadows in this place to hold all the monsters he sees—and there are still a lot of shadows here, that dirty daylight doesn’t kill the darkness so much as just . . . throw it into high contrast. He doesn’t seem to be seriously injured, physically—no bones broken that I can see, no major wounds—but it’s obvious he’s way past your garden-variety thousand-yard stare. I’ve seen some pretty horrific shit over the past couple of hours, and I’m looking my own death in the face, and even so I can tell he’s far farther into hell than I am.