The Siege Against Tolkeen

Donald Hartman, clad in his power armor, struck out at one of the crumbling concrete golems attacking him, putting his fist straight through the thing's chest. Feeling an strange lump inside, he clamped his fingers down upon it, and pulled the strange chunk out of the golem. It turned out to be a beating heart of stone and silver, vomiting blue-tinted energy out of its valves. The golem crumbled, and Hartman crushed the heart into dust.

The surviving members of the Black Dog squadron had been attacked by a platoon of nearly 40 golems, although that number had quickly been whittled away. The magical constructs were a step up from the standard model, and boasted shoulder-mounted net guns and vibro-blade forearms. Waves of such automated, mindless foes had been attacking every day, trying to push the Coalition's forces back, even as legions of Skelebots and mechanized infantry strode inwards to penetrate deeper into the heart of Tolkeen.

A member of the Black Dogs was snared in a magical net, and surrounded by half a dozen golems who began hacking away at him with their knives. "Help me!" he shrieked, as his armor was stripped away from him slice by slice.

The golems suddenly melted into slag as a thick gout of plasma flame wrapped around them. The magical net evaporated, and the wounded SAMAS soldier rose to his feet, giving a thumbs up to the trooper who had saved him.

The last few golems ganged up around Hartman, and tried to hold him still to administer a beating. The leader of the Black Dogs grinned, although his smile was hidden by the skull-like faceplate. He reached into the chests of the two golems flanking him, pulling out their hearts, and then melted the third's head with a quick laser blast.

Suddenly, there was a crackling of magical energy, and over 200 of the golems appeared in the forest nearby. Several of them trudged off to face the Black Dogs, but the others seemed to be heading in a different direction.

"Firestorm I, we've got a whole lot of golems at coordinates 05-92-31," announced Hartman over his radio. "Think you could swing a couple of bombers down this way?"

"They're on their way," replied a female voice. "Can you hold your position for about 5 minutes, or do you need to fall back."

"The majority aren't after us," said Hartman as he atomized an antagonist with a plasma blast. "There are just a few who are covering the main squad's flanks that we have to worry about. Most of the golems are going to the southeast."

"Roger that. We've got a supply line there that's been under fire for days. Looks like you boys have identified the latest attack. Good job, and wait a few minutes for the fireworks."

The Black Dogs had already fallen upon the flankers, and had destroyed most of them with a barrage of plasma. The few survivors were blown to bits by fusion grenades just as the sleek black bombers headed in from the skies.

Each of the warplanes dropped what seemed like a pellet, a small black dot which was lost in the sun and smoke. The pellets dropped below the canopy, into the ranks of the golems. There was a brief moment of silence, and then a tremendous roar as pillars of flame burst into existence, slowly widening until the entire golem unit had been engulfed. The planes flew off to bomb another target, their work here done.

"Now that," laughed one of the Black Dogs, "Was a damn fine show. Sometimes I'm sorry that I'm a ground-pounder 'stead of a bomber pilot."

"Speaking of that," said another pilot, sitting down on a smoking golem corpse to pull out the heart, "Has anyone else heard the rumor that we're going to be reassigned? I hear that there are some bomber wings scheduled which need escorts, and that t he Black Dogs are the current favorite for the job."

"Sorta makes sense," replied Hartman. "After all, we're only holding back the line here. Nothing that couldn't be done by a good platoon of infantry and a few well-placed minefields. But don't get your hopes up too high. Rumors go flying during a war. Remember that one about the big super-weapon that everyone thought the sorcerers had created?"

Perrin gazed apprehensively through a shattered window, looking at the pyramid, his feverish mind full of thoughts of what it might do. He was in the secret meeting place of the Human Freedom Association, the back room of a sleazy beer hall. The floor of the place was covered in litter and dust, and the few tables lying around here and there were cracked and dirty.

The place was full of raucous street scum as well. Most looked like city rat posers, dirty, numerous punks who tried to get away with acting like headhunters. They congregated in the corners, gossiping loudly with each other while drinking flat beer and smoking cigarettes or reefers. One of them had hooked an electric guitar up, and was playing a strange, trippy type of music. His T-Shirt under the thick leather overcoat he wore boasted a skeleton playing a guitar over a tie-dyed background, with the words "Grateful Dead" printed below.

There were a few true warriors around, but they looked to be an undisciplined bunch. Men in bulky armor with large rifles sat around at the tables, talking loudly and drinking or smoking. There were a few guys who looked like Juicers as well. A jumpy man with bags under his eyes and a bio-comp harness covering his otherwise bare chest sat alone, polishing an ion pistol. A large, very muscular man wearing Juicer armor was arm-wrestling a partial conversion borg. And a tall, blonde woman who just seemed to look like a typical Juicer was lifting 100 pound barbells with one hand.

Smoke and noise filled the barren room. The odor of beer and tobacco and marijuana wafted through Perrin's nostrils. He could see a cooler in one corner, which was filled with pill bottles, six-packs, and thick, opaque plastic bags full of different substances. "This is supposed to be my great army?" he muttered under his breath.

"Warriors of the Human Freedom Association!" he then bellowed at the top of his lungs. "I am your new leader, Jack Perrin. And I come before you with an urgent mission!"

Nobody payed attention.

"I am your leader!" Perrin yelled, visibly upset. "I need your cooperation!"

"Shut up," grunted the arm wrestling Juicer, as he pinned his opponent's metal wrist to the table. "Nobody cares, asshole."

"Why don't you shut your mouth?" snapped Perrin. "Rick Freedom gave me this job, so you should show me the same respect you showed him."

"You want respect from me, you pale little squishie?" asked the Juicer softly. The noise level in the room suddenly dropped to nothing, as the man got out of his chair. "Look, you shit, I don't think you're very smart, so I'm going to let you walk out of here. Get out of my sight, before I lose my self control."

"I am your leader, and demand to be treated as such."

"You're going to be treated as fist-scrape in a moment, squish-boy!" laughed the Juicer. And with that, he swung one of his massive fists right into Perrin's gut, with the force of a sledgehammer.

Jack cried out in pain, and was thrown back several feet. As he crawled to his feet, he could see the Juicer walking towards him, a big grin on his face. "Oh look, a little bug," laughed the man. "I do believe I'll squash it." With that, he raised on e of his sneaker-clad feet, and brought it down hard at Perrin's spine.

The foot never reached its target. Perrin had reached up and caught the calf of the leg a mere moment before the blow would have crippled him. Quickly, he shifted his grip down to the ankle, getting a good firm grip. With his other hand, he latched onto the foot and twisted until he felt something in the Juicer break.

"Ow!" yelled the Juicer. "You broke my ankle! I'm going to kill you cold for that, squish!"

"I don't think you'll be in any position to do that," growled Perrin, as he pushed the Juicer down, and grabbed hold of the other ankle. Before the Juicer could pull the foot away, Jack snapped the bone, leaving the fallen warrior helpless to rise.

Perrin got up, and walked to the nearest table. He overturned it, and yanked off one of its wooden legs. "This is where the fun begins, buddy," he laughed, walking over to the fallen Juicer.

Fifteen minutes later, Perrin threw down a cracked and bloody table leg. "I am your leader!" he yelled to the horrified rabble. "I demand respect and obedience!"

All of the members of the Human Freedom Association paid very close attention, except for one who was in no condition to.

Next Chapter

By David Haendler.

Copyright © 1996, 1997, 1998David Haendler. All Rights Reserved.

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