“Meaning a soldier might give us data on the army, a Dead King data on himself, same for a general. And the Hollow King…” Bishop stared down at his dirt map. “He might be the only thing that explains all of it.”
“Which is why you don’t bite unless there’s no other way,” Seer said, his stare hard on Bishop.
“Brother, I bite when it becomes time to know what’s killing us.” He looked at Handy. “When that time comes, you’re on me. Drag me back if this shit gets too deep.” He looked at their siphon weapon. “Zodak, only siphon what it’s carrying, not what it is. I don’t want you swallowing whatever poison’s running through that army until we know the limits. Kaphas, donotbacklash into the source, not until we know whether it helps us or feeds them. If they hit, catch it and fling it somewhere empty until I say.”
“Understood,” he said quietly.
Bishop found Pain’s dark stare among the faces. “You do whatever it is you can do.” He pointed at Kult. “And you make damn sure his limbs stay attached to his body while he does it.”
“Always,” Kult said, his hunger hitting Bishop’s tastebuds.
Bishop pointed at their mind militia. “Vex and Seer, you keep whatever-the-fuck they have from crawling into our heads.”
“Panic may become our biggest challenge,” Lore warned, his peace slicing the doom-packed air.
“And if that happens then you beat that panic into whatever shape you need to. Modify it, mold it, weaponize it. Then move their asses. Knock them out, drag them, carry them, whatever you have to do.”
Bishop looked around. “Where’s our transporters.”
A dozen hands rose.
“Get in position and be ready. Anvil, keep your eyes on that field. If shit goes sideways, do what you’re good at. Find a way to fix it.”
“Got it, Eveque.”
He regarded all of them once more, his gaze landing on Seer. “We need you to see this off with prayer, brother. This operation can’t fail.”
Dead Kings
Bishop kept his shoulder to the damp brick of the abandoned concession stand. He fixed his eyes on the hundred and fifty feet of dead grass, packed dirt, and open dark between his men and the people waiting inside that wall of flesh.
He glanced at Quantum crouched a few feet away, gold stare barely visible in the dark, one hand braced against the brick as he commanded his twenty-four around the containment ring to the northern shoulders.
His number Twenty-Five stayed near, a naked humanoid blade in reach, folded low against the concession wall.
Bishop felt their army behind him, breath locked down, feet planted for the run, blades and bare hands ready to judge.
Quantum twitched, and the north side of the world flashed white.
His number twenty-five shot out.
Booms echoed, screams split the air and Bishop held his men back with a fist in the air, waiting for the bio-intel.
Quantum’s right hand closed into a fist and bodies at the north went flying, as his soldiers tore apart the ring with their bare hands.
His cyborg battalion joined as one on the northwest line.
“It’s buckling,” Bishop breathed, eyes on the south edge.
“Bio-intel open,” Quantum hurried. “Human signature. Strength output exceeds anatomy.”
The south line broke and Bishop caught sight of the mass of refugees.
“Chosen accord,” Quantum shot out. “The humans have formed contracts with the demons.Guilty.”
Bishop dropped his fist like a war hammer.
They shot out and the soldier inside his new architecture snapped awake. His upgraded eye shifted to battlefield sight and his lungs calibrated to combat rhythm. As he ran, the governors in his legs holding him to human speeds shut off. Tendons tightened, joints aligned and locked, and his spine took every impact then gave it back as forward motion.