Slumrat Rising

Chap. 32 Stay For The People

Harsh lights lit the warehouse interior. Whatever they were doing here, the outlaws wanted to make sure nothing got missed. Truth could see his targets- the half-naked slaves, necks rubbed red and raw by the iron collars they used to wear. Now with glowing green beams of light pouring from their eyes, their faces twisting into demonic forms as their bodies withered and twisted to better suit their new owners. They were slaves no more- or at least, not slaves to an earthly master.

The outlaws screamed with fury as they saw the lost merchandise. And because Truth and his colleagues were killing them with immense enthusiasm. The outlaws were also half naked, but Truth thought that was more recreational than practical. Thick bands of body paint, solid stripes of red, yellow, black, or bleach white covered the outlaws. They favored basalt-tipped fetishes decorated with bright feathers. Truth favored a reliable needler- and a vicious spell loadout.

Weapons free? Oh yes. “Load Pierce. Load Moshe’s Sword.”

WARNING! Spell loadout may damage your apertures if overused. Load anyway?

A jet of bile flew past Truth and started burning a hole through the wall behind him. “YES! NOW NOW NOW!”

Truth felt the spells jolt into place- pierce sitting comfortably in the Level One slot, The Sword of Moshe shoving forcefully into the Level Two slot. It wanted you to be at least level four before you used it. But he was a Starbrite Man. And with the System, he was a demigod.

Oof. This is a biggie, huh? Overkill for a glorified bug stomp. You know that this might kill you, right? No, you don’t. Fantastic. You know what? Not my problem.

Truth had the vague notion that this might actually kill him. Then an ax made of flames and spite came whipping at his guts, and he rapidly stopped caring. He dove out of the way and came up shooting.

The needle came flickering out of the talisman, summoned by his will from the magazine in its base. It passed through the intricate web of magic formed by the combination of Truth’s will, the System’s guidance, and the built-in arrays in the talisman. The needle became subtly sharper, more rigid, pushed forward by even more irresistible force. It crossed the air faster than blinking, faster than thought. The needle punched tiny holes through one, two, three bodies before vanishing through the wall behind them. Just a little, needle-sized hole. And then Moshe’s Sword… cut.

The Sword of Moshe Does Not Gleam. The Sword of Moshe Casts No Shadow. The Sword of Moshe Is In The Sheath Or Drawing Blood. Truth remembered the description of the spell in the System Store. There was no lie.

The holes exploded with blood, pinpricks widening to a hand’s width following the needle's path. Blood fountained out, jetted out, far faster than mere blood pressure should allow. The impact on the demons was even more exaggerated. The possessed slaves went up in pillars of golden fire, their demonic voices wailing miserably, screaming insects in a bonfire, as their insubstantial forms dissolved.

The cosmic energy needed by such a potent spell was significant. The magic drew hard on the cosmic energy stored in Truth’s apertures, which in turn drew hard on the cosmic rays around him to try and refill. Of course, there was no hope of keeping up with the expenditure, but they did try. And the rays, wild and rough, coming fast and without the support of elixirs or cultivation, burned. This was the raw stuff of the universe, coursing through your body and soul. Burnout was a very literal, frequently terminal, consequence.

Having your head melted off by a column of freezing black acidic bile that rotted your soul and dragged its screaming dregs down into hell was also a consequence, though it was a consequence of not bringing enough spell to the fight. Truth didn’t hesitate a moment before lining up his next shot and bagging four more.

The strain on his apertures increased by a large chunk. The greater the vacuum within, the quicker the cosmic rays came in, and the worse the burn. His teammates were firing too, shockwave spells, pinwheel whips of acid, and exorcism shots of varying potency doing varying degrees of damage. They might not be one-shotting the enemy, but they were putting them down hard regardless.

Goetia Pandemonium. When you got all the demons, all at once. Truth watched one slave’s face unravel, lips pulling back as chitinous black mandibles stretched out from within the hollowed flesh. The demon crouched and leaped, clearing the space between it and Truth in a bare second. He saw its neck bulging, building the bolus of corrupting bile it would spray over him and his team. Not today.

Truth’s needler punched through the neck, the Sword of Moshe almost screaming with outrage at the foulness it had to cleanse. The corpse landed on its knees, its head resting tidily beside it. The corpse, kneeling on the floor, white-gold flames shooting up from its bare shoulders as the insect-like head twisted and shrieked and became still.

Goetia Pandemonium- A billion screaming insects in the desert night. Landing on our world. Feasting. Spreading. Truth could hear one of his teammates howling next to him. One of the demons got him? But he had to keep his eyes front, or the bastards swarming at him would overrun everyone. He couldn’t see the end of them, even though he knew only a few dozen people were in the building. He lined up his next shot. Weapons Free, so no worries about firing into traffic. Just… got to mind the burn.

His next shot dropped three more, giving him a sudden gap in the press of bodies. “Charm out!” Truth screamed. He palmed the explosive charm off his carrier, armed it with a thought, and pitched it into the hole. One of the possessed slaves had a bright idea and spat some of its corrosive bile at the grenade. This did not work as planned for anyone. The grenade popped early, missing half of its intended targets. The explosive overpressure drove soft ceramic beads through the air, tearing flesh into odd rags as they deformed on contact. Or deformed as they bounced off the PMC soldiers’ armor. Of course, that same burst of air sprayed the corrosive bile everywhere as well.

It turned out the slaves didn’t like it any better than humans did. The outlaws really didn’t like it. Truth could see a droplet of it slowly burning through his goggles. He didn’t like it one bit, either. He wiped it off with the back of an armored gauntlet, tried to ignore the vomit stench, and got back to dropping targets.

It was harder to line up multi-kills now, as the grenade and his comrades had done a superb job winnowing the field. Truth felt the state of his apertures. Hurting. Burning. But not at the point of breaking. He saw a cluster and took his shot. The needle punched through three, not immediately fatal, but he reckoned the three would bleed out in less than a minute.

White, blinding pain. Migraine. Cold fire burning. He almost passed out. Truth fell to one knee, dropping his needler. An outlaw saw his chance and came in roaring; fetish wreathed in fire as he bowled Truth over and tried to stab through the armor.

Truth barely got an arm up, trying to push the stone-tipped, spear-like fetish to one side. The outlaw tried to climb on top of him, mount him and stab down. Truth wasn’t having it- fighting to focus through the pain and blinding migraine. The outlaw tried to smash him with an elbow. Truth grabbed the arm, punched the bastard in the nose, and rolled him into an arm bar. He felt the bone crack and kept pulling. One of Truth’s comrades ran up and put two needles through the outlaw’s head. Hollowing it out like the outlaw’s former slaves.

The battle was over. They won.

Truth collapsed on the ground and weakly yelled for a medic.

Three hours later, back at the hotel, Truth got the rest of the story. The ambush was a success- their intel going in was not. The outlaws didn’t have just the warehouse; they also took over nearby buildings. Possessed slaves burst like an ant tide from every doorway and window, threatening to sweep through the small city and leave it lifeless.

The backup firing positions and rooftop arrays, strictly intended as last-ditch fallback options, went into action within a minute of Truth breaching the roof. The whole block the warehouse was on was a sea of fire. The materials they were supposed to retrieve should be fine- some rare onyx, necessary for purposes Truth couldn’t guess at.

The medic had Truth on a drip, the potion easing the burn and numbing the pain. Nothing would soothe the burns laid down by the medic nor by Sergeant Murthey. Apparently, burning out your apertures in the name of combat effectiveness was “the stupidest shit ever in the history of every world.” Even though he killed more than any five other people. When Truth tried to defend himself, they just sneered and left. The quiet was good. The potion was good. He started to drift off to sleep when one of his squad mates stuck his head in the door.

“Hey, Truth! Got a call for you.”

“A what now?”

“A call- someone sent a message up to Starbrite Corporate for you, then back down again through the PMC. C’mon. Tape that potion to your shoulder and get your ass in gear. Comms altar is down by the lobby.”

“Mr. Medici? Truth Medici?”

“Yes, who is this?” Truth was gripping the sides of the comm altar, a little platform about as wide as his waist. You had to keep pouring expensive ritual oil into the well in the middle of it to keep the call going. Nobody liked the blasted things, but nobody had invented anything better yet, so you just had to suck it up and deal.

“Mr. Medici, I’m Renshi Hollenzoutien, Vice Principal of Rising Stars Vocational High School, where Sophia and Vigor Medici are enrolled. We have you listed on their files as their legal guardian?”

“Yes, that’s correct. Are they ok? What’s going on?” Truth’s voice was urgent.

“You are a hard man to reach, Mr. Medici. That is not a great trait in a legal guardian. It makes me wonder how much supervision these kids get at home.”

“Noted. What’s the problem?” Truth’s voice had a definite edge to it.

“That IS the problem, Mr. Medici. Lack of supervision means a lack of discipline. Lack of discipline results in violent, anti-social behaviors. The kind of behaviors that get recorded on permanent records.”

“Will you kindly spit out what it is? You have already got me on the next flight to Harban; I can tell you that.” Truth didn’t have the best grip on his temper at the moment, and it was slipping fast.

“That’s what you should be doing. Mr. Medici, Sophia got into an altercation with some other students. Those students, excellent young scholars, I might add, report that she attacked them unprovoked and left them with serious injuries. These are some badly bruised kids, and we are still waiting on the doctor’s note regarding sprains and a possible impact fracture.”

“Wait, Sophie dropped some unspecified number of her classmates in a fight? With what, a brick? She can’t weigh more than forty-five kilos soaking wet.”

“Apparently, what she lacks in muscle, she makes up for in aggression. Also not the point. When the victim’s friends tried to intervene, Vigor demonstrated the aptness of his name and started smashing their feet and ankles with a textbook. We have four students on crutches today, Mr. Medici.”

“Alright. What does the school intend to do about my siblings being ganged up on and nearly lynched?”

There was a sputtering, outraged noise coming over the aether. Truth could see the oil level falling quickly as the conversation dragged on.

“They are suspended. Pending disciplinary review, likely expulsion, and possible criminal referral.”

A squaddie stuck his head in the room with the altar. “Hey, Truth! Captain booked a party bus down to the beach. The whole thing is loaded with beer, liquor, and locals up for a party. And I DO mean A PARTY! Let’s GOOO!”

Truth looked at the squaddie. They were already wearing a “funny” hat. He looked back at the altar and gave a heartfelt sigh.