The Wild Beasts of Anthony Mannis

The KA-DYS Dragonslayer is one of the grandest achievements of Borges technology. A product of the Kesla-Allay Technical Co-Op, the heavily armored siege tank is equipped with a mounted T28 Disarray Tech Cannon, which can be used dually for destroying barricades or rogue colossus. (See also: KA-DYS-C, the Kesla-Ally Calliope, in Pamphlet XIX)

- Information Available to Borges Citizens, Pamphlet III

“Anthony? Are you okay?” Philip asked tentatively. The beetle invocations were moving slowly towards them, a living carpet. Borges soldiers scrambled out of the path of the mass of insects, who were devouring abandoned guns with indifference.

The boy was kneeling on the ground, his face dripping with sweat. “Very tired. Can’t shake it. Want to sleep.”

“Not now buddy. You gotta get through it.” Philip shook him gently. Anthony’s minotaur was holding its shield over its head as Asterion’s colossus bashed down on it with a war-axe. Every blow cracked the buckler a little more and drove the minotaur’s braced feet further into the ground. It growled defiantly, a cornered animal.

“I’m trying. I can’t.”

Philip fired on a beetle, and it exploded into crystalline fragments. Dozens more swarmed towards him. He looked across the beetle horde to Hayley, where two hotshots had cornered her with their torches.

Why isn’t she moving?

Fire. She’s scared of fire.

He shook Anthony again, more urgently.

“Anthony, get up. I know you’re tired. But you have to, or we die. And not just us: she dies.”

Anthony glanced wearily at Hayley, who was being pressed backwards by the flames. She was biting her lip defiantly, snarling, but her eyes were wide with fear. The hotshots taunted her as they closed in.

“Whatsamatta’ baby, don’t like the heat?”

“I don’t think she does, mate, let’s give ’er a warm welcome!”

“It’ll all be ova’ soon, hot stuff!”

C’mon, Anthony told himself, get up. Don’t quit.

He was so tired.

Do it for her.

A jet of flame shot out of the torch, and Hayley broke.

“Anthony!” she screamed.

As if from a dream, he awoke.

Angry.

Anthony’s minotaur grew in size, pushing Asterion’s back. Across the field, the leader of the Tartarians was taken aback, visibly stumbling. Anthony’s beast ducked under Asterion’s and tackled it around the waist, dumping it on the ground with a gargantuan crash; beetles crunched and splintered underneath. Anthony’s minotaur was already on its way to Hayley, scooping her up away from the flames in the palm of its hand. It looked at her with glowing eyes.

You’re never alone, Hayles, the colossus seemed to say, not while you’re with us.

“Thank you,” Hayley replied, even though she knew she was talking to an imagination.

Smoothing out her straw jacket, she dove out of the hand of the colossus and planted two feet on the chest of a Spectre Man who was aiming a railgun at them. He grunted from the impact and did a backwards roll to his knees, drawing his revolver and firing a few rounds before Hayley smacked the gun out of his hands. Growling, he drew his electric baton.

“Philip!” she shouted, “Better put that big brain of yours to work. We need a solution fast!”

She ducked under the swinging baton, spun around to his back, and locked her wiry arms around his neck. As she pressed her head to his to make the choke tighter, she realized something. His armor, and the armor of the other three Spectre Men, were the same carapace-like design as hers.

“Who made your armor?” she hissed into the Spectre Man’s ear.

He didn’t answer, his breath rasping as he struggled to breathe. Hayley loosened her grip slightly.

“I’ll ask you one more time before I shut the lights off. Who made your armor.”

There was a recognizably hollow laugh behind her that made the hair on her neck stiffen. She turned to see the tall man, dressed in purple and red silk, leaning lazily on a sabre. His face was covered by an ivory-colored harlequin’s mask.

“Little girl,” The Jester called to her softly, “Don’t you recognize the work of your own father?”

#

“Fine time for you to show up,” Raffick shot at Marceau.

“Just making sure you did your job,” The Jester said lethargically. He flicked at a beetle with his sabre, not looking at the Spectre Man, “Internal Affairs, one might call it.”

“Watching a security guard. That is an even lower task than what I am doing, and I am the one who got on the wrong side of Warden Tan.”

“I admit I am grossly overqualified. But it has turned out to be quite exciting, wouldn’t you agree?” He tilted his head disconcertingly to the side and watched Asterion’s minotaur punch Anthony’s colossus into the ground. Anthony had summoned a chimaera as well, and the scaled beast breathed a wall of fire at the swarming insects.

“These troublemakers do seem to be attracted to you.”

“It has nothing to do with me. You and Tan both knew everything—”

“Your excuses do not allay your situation, nor am I remotely interested in them,” The Jester interrupted, “General Collier and I have much to discuss—”

“DEADMAN,” screamed Hayley, leaping over the unconscious Spectre Man unceremoniously. She ran towards Marceau with her quarterstaff raised above her head.

“One moment, please,” The Jester said to Raffick. He turned to face Hayley as she used her staff to vault over a river of beetles, raising his sabre in perfect time to block her downward strike. His feet sunk into the ground slightly under the force of her blow.

Philip grabbed a railgun off an unconscious Spectre Man.

“Follow me Anthony, I’ve got a plan!” he shouted at Anthony. I think I have a plan, at least.

He fired the railgun into the air and a beam of bright purple light arced upwards. It caught Shino’s attention. He cackled louder, and the beetles grew bigger—they had been the size of housecats; now they were size of wild boars. He sent his waves of giant beetles scuttling towards the light. Philip charged the gun again and ran towards Free Crossing. Once primed, he fired it into the air.

“Where are you going?” yelled Anthony, strained as he followed, “Fire at the freakin’ Special Service invocations! I can’t hold them off forever!”

Philip fired the railgun once more, and it died with a whine, the cartridge depleted. He tossed it away, and picked up a PSO pulse rifle, firing at the beetles that were creeping close to him. Anthony’s minotaur swung its sword in an overhead arc and bit deep into the shoulder of Asterion’s.

Yes! Anthony thought triumphantly, I think I can do this.

“Minotaurs are my thing, you copycat,” he said. His smile faded when he saw Asterion laughing across the field.

“You are weak,” the bull-helmed boy boomed. He was only nine years of age, but the Borges School for the Gifted had robbed him of a childhood and made him look older than his years. “I felt nothing.”

Asterion’s minotaur pulled the blade out of its shoulder and snapped it in half. With a bellow, it swung its axe with two hands and Anthony’s beast’s helmed head went tumbling in the dirt. It dissipated with a defeated roar.

Philip, whatever your plan is, I hope it works. Anthony thought. His knees were weak and he felt something hot run across his upper lip—his nose was bleeding. He looked across the field at Asterion, whose eyes were glowing underneath his bull-head helm. Asterion’s minotaur had now pinned Anthony’s chimaera to the ground with one hand and prepared to behead it with the other. The great beast turned to face Anthony with great soulless eyes.

“Why do you run to the city? They will not open to you,” shouted Asterion. “They say no one can break Free Crossing. They would not tarnish that reputation for three children.”

“Who you calling children?” Philip protested. “I’m older than you by a lot.”

“Don’t take it so literally, old man—” Asterion began, but was rocked by an explosion of green energy that erupted next to him. Another blast of green energy hit his minotaur in the chest and dissolved it, the invocation bellowing, furnace-like, as it disappeared from existence. Asterion dropped to one knee, clutching his head. Anthony stared in awe at the wall of Free Crossing, where in the dim morning light he could see the green glow of the activated railgun turrets.

“The turrets are online!” Philip sighed in relief. “We can do this, Anthony.”

A horn sounded. Far above them, Ocean Zone militiamen were arming and firing the turrets at the Borges, who had foolishly chased Anthony into their range. Great blasts of green energy rained down their salvation.

Anthony smiled, brushed his hair back and breathed deeply as he put all his energy into his chimaera, having it grow a second head. “Nice work, Philip. You take care of those pissos. I got these chump invokers.”

The chimaera rattled a battlecry. One head breathed frost, and the other flame, scattering the beetles in all directions.

A panicked PSO rushed up to General Collier, who had been watching everything off on the sidelines, and whispered something in his ear. General Collier’s eyes flitted, and he made his way towards Raffick, who was preparing to charge Anthony with the remainder of his armaments.

“Raffick,” he drawled, “come with me. It appears we are being flanked by OZM; this attack was merely a diversion. Forget the invoker—Free Crossing will have soon prepared their vanguard. Asterion and Shino will be fine, Marceau will see to their supervision. I need you to lay coordinates for the Dragonslayers.”

The scarred side of Raffick’s face twitched.

“You can’t get some other dope Spectre Man to do it?”

“That is an order,” General Collier snapped, “Free Crossing is of greater importance than some kid invoker. Forget the boy. Do not question me again.”

There was still no motion by the Elite Spectre Man.

“Did you forget the chain of command, officer?” Collier thundered, “Expect a court martial when we return to Cirk Malpy. There will be a disciplinary hearing!”

Raffick growled and his eyes narrowed.

“Piss on the chain of command. The Borges give me orders no longer.”

He launched himself towards Anthony, weapon in hand.