artificially boosted, drug-expanded mind living inside every war machine on Virimonde, and loving every minute of it.
The man who was now the Lord High Dram led his troops howling through the blazing streets of a small town. Buildings burned to every side, thick black smoke billowing up into the early-morning sky. The heat from every side made Dram's exposed face and hands smart, and hot cinders floated on the air. His men spread out, plunging down every side turning and alleyway, searching out rebels and putting them to the sword. Suddenly his men began falling, as snipers opened fire from the upper story of a building up ahead. Dram roared orders, and a dozen disrupters opened fire at once, the joined energy blasts blowing the whole upper floor of the building apart in a shower of rubble and reddish clouds of pulverized bricks. Dram had his men toss a few concussion grenades into the lower floor, just in case, and then they moved on. Dram strode at the head of his troops, gun in one hand, sword in the other. Blood dripped steadily from the sword. There were screams and shouts and explosions all around, and Dram grinned so widely his cheeks ached. This was what he had been born, had been constructed and chosen, to do, and he loved every minute of it.
He shouldn't really have been planetside at all. He should have stayed safely in orbit, setting overall policy and allowing General Beckett to take care of the practical side of things. Dram had started out with good intentions, but they hadn't lasted long once the fighting really got under way. He'd watched it all on the
And he loved it. He swung his sword with an arm that never tired, and no one could stand against him. He was the Warrior Prime, the Widowmaker, and he was everything the original had been and more. He stayed at the head of his troops, taking out rebel strongholds with gun and grenades, leading his men from one glorious victory to another. Buildings blazed around him, the rebels' dead lay everywhere, and the survivors ran before him, and he'd never felt so alive in his entire short life. His heart hammered in his chest, his breathing was deep and harsh, and he felt like he could go on fighting forever and a day, and never ask for anything else. From time to time it occurred to him that he wasn't fighting some faceless enemy, that the people he killed had faces and lives and histories of their own, and parents and children to mourn them, but even then he didn't care. They had defied him and his Empress and the way things were, and there was only one answer for that. If they had surrendered, he would have spared them. He was sure he would. They would have had to stand trial, and many would have been executed anyway, but all this slaughter and destruction lay at their door, not his. And so he walked up and down in the narrow cobbled streets, killing people for all the right reasons and perhaps a few wrong ones, and didn't give a damn. He was having a good time.
General Beckett's voice sounded now and then through his comm implant, suggesting he had done enough, and should stand down while his men took care of the mopping-up, but he wouldn't listen. He knew where he was needed. And when Beckett's voice grew harsh, questioning his actions and his motives. Dram just laughed and invited Beckett to come down and get his hands bloody, too. Beckett declined, and Dram laughed again. After this town was pacified there would be more towns, and then the cities. There was so much work still to be done, and he couldn't wait to get to it.
It did occur to him to wonder if his original would have felt the same. He liked to think so. That he was more than just a shadow of the original. The first Dram lived on within him, guided and shaped by the legacy of his diaries, and the fire that burned within him. In every way that mattered, he was the Lord High Dram, Warrior Prime by popular acclaim, Widowmaker by destiny.
He strode on through blood and death and the fires of Hell, and no one could touch him. It was as though he was… blessed. It never occurred to him to wonder by whom.
Captain Silence, Investigator Frost, and Security Officer Stelmach stumbled out of the wreckage of their downed pinnace and ran for the partial shelter of a burnt-out building. The war machines were everywhere, big and small, destroying what had once been a fair-sized town with ruthless, inhuman precision. Energy beams spit in all directions, exploding stonework and setting fire to the timbers and thatched roofs. It was just such a beam that had struck Silence's ship, despite the security codes he was broadcasting. The Investigator had identified the craft and its occupants repeatedly over the comm unit, but no one was listening. The disrupter beams just kept stabbing up out of the dark roiling smoke covering the town, punching through the pinnace's low-level shields again and again. With the engines stuttering and the cabin full of fire and smoke. Silence had no choice but to bring the pinnace in for an emergency landing. They plunged down through the smoke, jockeying between tall buildings and taller war machines. Silence chose the broadest street at hand and guided the dying ship down to a landing only one step up from a crash. It hit hard, skidding half the length of the street before slamming nose first into a boundary wall, but it held together and the engines didn't explode, and Silence had enough sense to be grateful for that.
The three of them huddled inside what was left of the building, little more than half a dozen walls blackened by fire and holed by repeated impact blasts, and half a roof still quietly smoldering. Silence and Frost took it in turn to peer briefly out the shattered window. The war machines roared up and down, pounding the remaining buildings into rubble. Fires blazed and men screamed. Robots in the shape of men rounded up strays and killed them with horrible efficiency. All around them were the sounds of a town dying, and the triumph of machines. Silence checked the energy levels in his disrupter, and growled angrily to himself about heads rolling when he got back. The Investigator was calm as always, assessing the odds against them with a professional eye. Without the security codes used by Dram's ground forces, the war machines would treat them as legitimate targets. Stelmach stood with his back pressed against the wall, refusing to look out the window. His heart was pounding, and he had to struggle to get his breath, but the hand holding his gun was steady. Being around Silence and Frost had toughened him despite himself. Silence looked at Frost.
'How far are we from where we're supposed to be?'
'According to the pinnace's last readings, not too far. Maybe half a mile. Easy walking distance, under normal conditions.'
'Which these very definitely aren't.' Silence scowled, weighing their chances. 'As things are, half a mile is going to be hard going. Even for us. Investigator, try and raise the Deathstalker Standing again.'
Frost accessed her comm implant and shook her head. 'Still no joy. The war machines are blocking all channels except their own, and I don't have the security codes to access theirs. We're going to have to make it to the Standing on our own.'
'We're doomed,' said Stelmach.
'Walk in the park,' said Silence briskly. 'All right, there are a hell of a lot of war machines out there, but their main priority is wrecking the town. And the androids are only concerned with mopping up resistance. As long as we keep our heads down and don't interfere, we should be safe enough.'
'Should being the operative word,' said Stelmach. 'Couldn't we just stay here till the machines get bored and go away?'
And then they all flinched as the building next door exploded into smoke and fire and stone shrapnel as a war machine targeted it with its disrupters. The ground shook beneath their feet, and what was left of the house groaned. A jagged crack ran down the wall Stelmach was leaning against, and he jumped away. Streams of dust and soot fell from the ceiling. Flames rose up, consuming what little remained of the building next door, and Silence had to back away from the heat coming through the shattered window.
'The machines won't stop here till there's nothing left but rubble,' he said flatly. 'We'll have to run for it. Stick close to us, Stelmach. You'll be safe.'
'Can I have that in writing?' said Stelmach.
'You can have my boot up your backside if you don't stop whining,' said Frost. 'Now get moving, or I'll kill you myself.'
Stelmach glared at her mutinously, but had the sense not to say anything else. Investigators weren't known for their tolerance. Silence edged over to the open space where the door had been and looked out cautiously. The
