JUKA SERIAL
Part 4: Exodus

I.

Of all the events in Jukan history, none commanded more awe or terror than the Last Assault on Citadel Moonglow. The final, impenetrable stronghold of the Overlords had never been conquered, not even in the machine-driven wars between the citadels. Its very name spoke of untouchable gods from antiquity. Ruled by the Prime Overlord, it was an invincible opponent. On the day of the final offensive, the rebel Juka learned the cost of challenging its legendary reputation.

It was, as every schoolchild knows, the end of the world.

Veiled by a writhing thunderstorm, the glimmering shadow of the citadel stretched over the sky like a canopy of smoldering embers. Thousands of lamps twinkled across its hovering bulk. Anchored in a dozen places by tall, thin pillars, the city swayed uneasily in the embrace of angry winds. Ash-grey clouds were tangled with lightning. Thunder roared like a god's nightmare.

Yet the sky was the barest echo of the tempest on the plains below.

The stone-paved battlefield was encrusted with flames. Two armies collided in a clamorous holocaust of torches and bonfires and blazing corpses. Thousands of fires lit the ranks of loyalist Juka, arrayed in a dense circle about the citadel's anchor points. A hundred thousand more surrounded them, as the rebels pressed into the defensive lines. And stretched across the plains among the smokestacks and windmills of abandoned factories were long columns of refugees, pouring out of the city at the sufferance of the attacking troops.

Where soldiers faced soldiers, no fiercer melee had ever been fought. Metal crashed upon metal with demoniac shrieks. The air they inhaled was a broth of heat and sweat and oily rain and acid smoke. Warriors conversed in animal snarls. Each side hurled into combat with the potent, inescapable knowledge that an end to the war was at hand. A rebel victory would extinguish the Overlords. Defeat would come only after the decimation of the revolutionary armies. Honor forgave no other outcome.

Despite a twentyfold advantage, however, the rebels gained little ground. The loyalists met them with the full barrage of Overlord-designed artillery, flame belchers, gas throwers and advanced melee weapons. The air was an inferno of flashes and fumes, forks of lightning and cascades of sparks. Overhead a dozen loyal airships stalked the skies. Missiles and spark stones rained down from the citadel. By comparison the rebels carried only what devices they had scavenged from other citadels. The very goal of the revolution meant that Overlord technology, inaccessible to Jukan engineers, would vanish by attrition from their society. In time, folded steel and Jukan muscle would constitute the dominant powers on the battlefield. Every rebel victory brought that future one city closer.

They paid for their prior successes with a moat of blood around Citadel Moonglow. Loyalist machines cut them down by the scores. Unlike their enemies, the rebels had dwindling caches of healing draughts.

And of course, the loyalists employed monsters to fight beside them.

The rumble of several hundred Juggernauts would echo through the nightmares of the day's survivors, rebels and loyalists alike. Ranks of them pushed through attacking lines with brutal ease. Dozens of Dreadnoughts soared above the melee, raking it with static bursts and torrents of missile fire. Attending the Juggernauts were swarms of maintenance drones, smaller counterparts to the half-living war machines, conscripted into the defense of the citadel.

Above them all towered the largest and most terrifying of the Overlords' mechanized slaves. Only five Behemoths walked the burning plains. It was enough to harry rebel formations. They strode through enemy forces on steel legs hundreds of feet high, crushing troops and equipment under inconceivable weight. Each titan walked on four legs attached to a comparatively small body, with a fifth reared high in the air. Or perhaps it was better deemed a neck, for at its tip was a giant, spade-shaped weapon resembling a long, jagged muzzle. When a Behemoth struck, tons of steel bellowed in the motion. Its jaws swept down in a ponderous, irresistible arc that swallowed up dozens of soldiers, war machines, carriages and ridgebacks and gouged savage troughs across the paved, dead earth. The killing stroke was unsophisticated. Nothing, not even stray Juggernauts caught in the path, survived the fall when dropped from six hundred feet in the air.

These were the opponents that the rebel Juka faced with cold steel, strong arms and stern expressions. The honor of meeting powerful enemies did little to assuage the seething, delirious horror of the front lines.

Near the periphery of the attacking forces, Kumar watched the unfolding carnage. He stood in full battle armor, decked with weapons and festooned with the gilt badges of rank. His arms were crossed. The weight of the day pulled lines in his face.

Beside him appeared another figure, similarly equipped, with a stream of silky hair as red as hot iron. Narah tilted her head and stared at him.

"I know that look. Tell me, are we brooding over our dismal lot in life, or pensive about the terrible duty we must perform?"

Kumar hinted at a smile. "What happened to the grim warrior I used to know? I always counted your scowl among my friends in battle."

"That was long ago, when my purity was intact. You've corrupted me with good nature."

"Could any man hope for a greater legacy? I hope I die before your smile fades." He turned to her. "Is Darhim ready to start?"

"He is. And the Great Mother is hungry for our blood."

Inside a high tent, the Hand of Honor met around a small stone basin. Obden and Turlogan were likewise dressed for warfare. The diminutive Darhim wore long ceremonial robes. When all were in place the aged priest lit a whispering blue flame under the basin. Within the stone bowl, an iron obelisk began to heat and glow.

The old priest raised his hands and called out, "Great Mother, witness this Sanguination! To you we owe the blessings of life and glory. Honor us with the courage to be worthy of the brave Juka who stand against us. It is in your name we fight.

"Grant each of us now the privilege to see with our eyes that which we hold silently in our hearts. In return we offer you this, in the hope you require no more."

The stone basin was toothed with metal blades. Each Juka sliced open his forearm on an iron fang and drizzled blood onto the seething hot obelisk. The droplets vanished into crackles of smoke. They sealed their wounds by pressing them to the glowing obelisk. The air thickened with bitter smoke and a dense, wordless tension.

Darhim closed the ritual with a gesture. He knelt to clip off the blue flame, then stood and shrugged free of his robe. Underneath it he wore thick plates of armor. Weapons dangled from straps around his waist and shoulders.

He nodded. "That's done. Let's go finish what we started."

Three hundred feet in the air, the belly of a Behemoth was riddled with windows. Inside the giant's body was a launching bay, around which teemed a hive of flying machines. These were Juka-manned pods, held aloft by levitant tanks and propelled by large, vertical wheels that stroked the air as a paddle strokes water. The gyrofoils darted nimbly through the storm. They buzzed the rebel hosts and raked them at short range with bolts of static charge. Their lofty roost kept them otherwise out of enemy reach.

The torchlit launching bay flustered with activity. Fresh gyrofoils hurtled into the dark, wet sky through a broad doorway. Spent pods leapt back in, landing on small wheels with brakes that hissed sparks. Crews of workmen scrambled to replenish levitant tanks and scourge chambers. The air churned with bitter scents.

Turlogan roared at the workers when he emerged from a gyrofoil. Many of them cowered but more drew blades, startled by the appearance of the armored giant. Those that faced him met the brunt of his kinetic maul. By the time Kumar climbed out behind him, eight workmen swarmed Turlogan. He seemed invigorated by the resistance. A man clung feebly to each of the pit fighter's arms. More clutched his legs, trying to dislodge him from his immovable stance. His laughter pounded the metal walls.

"This is the might of the dreaded Behemoth? Send them all to me! I'll smash them down from the sky!"

Kumar ignored his companion's boasts. It had cost dozens of lives to capture enough gyrofoils for this mission. They chased a perilous gambit. But no other choice was available - in Jukan memory no Behemoth had ever been defeated.

He drew his static greatsword and rent through a cluster of armed workmen. Turlogan knocked his attackers around the deck, crushing bones and flesh with furious delight. In minutes they secured the gyrofoil bay. A flickering gloom settled around them, trembling with the moans of the dying and the dolorous groans of the Behemoth's walking steel legs. The floor heaved with each step.

Kumar wiped down his blade. "Watch for incoming gyrofoils. Disable the loyalists and let our people be."

Turlogan looked at the stowed pods, each identical to the next. "How do we tell ours from theirs?"

The chamber exploded with a metallic clang. An errant gyrofoil plunged in the open door and banged against the roof. On the deck it toppled to its side and leaked levitant fuel in a floating, silvery cloud. The circular hatch flung open and Narah tumbled out. She rolled to her feet and drew two angular swords, crouched in a defensive stance.

Kumar pursed his lips. "Theirs are manned by skilled pilots."

Obden clambered out after Narah. Other gyrofoils followed, bringing Darhim and Jamark and two score other rebels. When enough had arrived, Kumar gave the order to proceed with the plan.

A steel trap door loomed in the ceiling, at the top of a narrow ladder. Obden had attached spring saps to the hinges and monitored the progress of their beaklike jaws. Below her, Darhim watched with impatient eyes. "Time is not our ally," murmured the old Juka. "Try this."

He unsheathed a short sword and handed it to her. Obden raised her eyebrows. With the flip of a lever she awakened gears in the hilt. The weapon hummed and vibrated. A red glow bloomed across the tempered metal of the blade.

The engineer grinned. "Time seems to be your friend. You've become more practical over the course of this war." She extricated a spring sap and worked the searing hot sword into the crack it had chewed. Smoke coughed out of the wounded hinge.

Darhim shook his helmeted head. "Time favors hearts and legends. Rely on good equipment for everything else."

The trap door smashed open into a room entangled in shadow. A silhouette with broad shoulders climbed out of the floor, inside a shaft of firelight from below. Turlogan knelt, whispering to the shape that emerged behind him.

"You're sure the Behemoth can't hear us?"

Obden grunted as she found her feet. She lugged a long wooden box. "I talked to engineers from the factory where these were built. The automaton can see and hear outside, but it has no sensation in here. We're in its blind spot."

The pit fighter hoisted the maul from his back. "The day is coming when all these machines will be rubble. You don't know how much I'm going to enjoy that."

"Don't swing your hammer too wide. Look around you, Turlogan. Jukan hands built this. This is our craftsmanship. Respect what we've done."

"Respect this monstrosity? You think a lot of me. How many centuries have we wasted building horrors like this?"

She handed him an unlighted spark lantern from the box. "It's all we have. After Moonglow falls, we'll turn our craft to something worthwhile. Good riddance to these Overlord designs."

Turlogan struck the lantern's ignition. A pale glow leapt from the bright, buzzing arc. Both Juka choked on their breaths.

The room was a bramble of ducts and tubes. They burbled and shivered with the flow of alchemical fluids, rushing through clanking pumps, spilling in and out of glass tubes and globes. The jumbled mass was woven into a radiating pattern that converged on the center of the chamber. There on the floor lay the organic portion of the Behemoth.

The creature could still be recognized as Juka. It had a bony torso, punctured by rows of copper pipes. Its outspread arms frayed into bundles of tissue, braided around two crooked rods that connected to heavy, churning gears. Likewise its legs unraveled into stalky, grinding devices. The creature squirmed and convulsed as if in pain. With each jerk of a limb one of the Behemoth's giant legs moved; with each buck of the automaton's head, the machine's towering, steel-jawed neck swooped and swayed.

For a face it had a geyser of leather hoses and jointed copper pipes. The rebels could see strands of grey hair on the wastes of a scalp.

Turlogan let out a breathy growl. "If every machine is smashed tomorrow, it won't be soon enough."

Obden did not respond. One of her hands crawled into the box she had brought and pulled out a mallet and chisel.

A layer of scorching hot smoke hovered above the thick of the battle, reflecting the orange fires below. From the ground, through the drifting miasma, the Overlords' flying machines were visible only as frightful, angular shapes dipping into view just long enough to deliver a devastating barrage of missiles or gas or slithering bolts of electricity. But the gigantic, long-limbed Behemoth captured everyone's attention when it moved. Its colossal legs lifted off the ground with laborious metallic sounds. Through gaps in the smoke it could be seen folding its limbs at many joints and drawing them up to its airship-sized body. Levitant held the machine aloft. Its neck retracted and the titan began to rise, closer and closer to the twinkling storm cloud that was Citadel Moonglow.

From a window in the landing bay Kumar watched the flying city creep nearer. The sight tickled his memory in a deep, neglected place. For most of his life he had shunned thought of his childhood.

The earliest voice Kumar could recall belonged to an old, withered mythsinger who made stars leap off his tongue. In the refinery where the warrior was born, the one-eyed Juka would gather children in the nursery and recite sagas about the ancient, unclouded heavens. Long ago, explained the songs, the sky was populated by a nation of luminous spirits and demons. The tales of their adventures were dreamlike and fanciful. They painted vivid colors against an imaginary sky as pure as smelted silver.

Magic flew from the old man's lips. If Kumar had to describe what a child's wonder looked like, it would be speckled with a million tiny lights that winked in the cadence of a song.

Citadel Moonglow loomed overhead, seething with crimson sparkles amid the thundering gale. The warrior frowned. His jaw tensed.

A warm hand lay on his shoulder. Narah's calm voice murmured, "Should I tell him my secret?"

Kumar creased his brow. "I didn't know you had anything to hide."

"Turlogan wants to know what I prayed for at Sanguination. I told him it was private, but he's more insistent than a chafing codpiece."

The pit fighter strolled closer, twirling his maul in anxious hands. "What difference does it make? They say prayers at Sanguination always come true. Me, I asked the Great Mother to give me fifty Janissars to kill today. That's what I want to be remembered for!"

Jamark leaned against the frame of a window. He pointed at the fiery battle below. "You didn't think it through, Turlogan. General Tallan and his men are down there, defending the central anchor column. Acquitting themselves very well, too."

Narah smirked. "If you jump out now you might land on a few. I promise I'll never forget you."

"What did you pray for, Narah?" Kumar took her hand. "I'll tell if you do."

"My, but we're being forthright this morning! It must have been something in the food. All right, if it's the only way I'll get some peace. I prayed to be the first among us to die."

Turlogan winced. "I didn't know you were so confident about this mission."

"I have no intention of dying today. So if the Great Mother honors my prayer, none of you will die either."

Kumar nodded. "Very noble. What if I asked for the same thing?"

"Maybe we'll both live forever. Why, what did you ask for?"

"I'll tell you after the battle."

Narah sneered. "You're a dishonest man, Kumar of Britain."

"I only want to give you something to live for."

"Quiet, everyone!" Darhim crouched behind a netted barrel and peeked through the open bay door. "There's a Dreadnought circling us!"

A hush fell over the rebel leaders and their troop of forty. Assertive blades kept the prisoners silent. A large silhouette flew through the rain-dark air, passed within yards of the entrance and then vanished. Minutes elapsed before the group stirred again.

"We're almost there," said Kumar in a soft tone. "Gather yourselves. Obden disabled the Behemoth's eyes, so we'll get an army of drones in here once we're inside the maintenance bay. Now, everyone knows their places. Get to them."

The rebels hurried to collect their weapons and equipment. Already prepared, Turlogan reclined against the wall and shook his head. "Narah, you wasted your prayer."

She cast him a skeptical glance. "You're an expert in spiritual matters?"

"I'm an expert in some things. You should have asked the Great Mother to protect that right flank you leave open on your clockwise spin thrust. And Kumar, you should have prayed for a faster vault lunge. My grandmother could dodge that greatsword of yours."

Jamark spit out a laugh as he walked past, until Kumar nudged his scar-cheeked companion. "His grandmother only lost one fight in the slave pits. They say Turlogan won his first tournament against her, but I'm not one to perpetuate rumors." Then he stiffened at a blade that appeared from behind him, at his throat.

Narah leaned her chin on the armor of his shoulder. Her grin reflected in the steel of the dagger. "You know I'll get you for lying to me." Then she kissed the blade and pressed it gently under his jaw.

When she pulled away, Kumar blew out a heavy breath. He smirked at Jamark. "Now I have something to live for."

DISCLAIMER: The prequel fiction contained on this site is copyright Electronic Arts and Origin and is used here for entertainment purposes only. 

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