Ashlyn Chronicles 1: 2287 A.D. by Glenn van Dyke, Renee van Dyke
Authors: Glenn van Dyke, Renee van Dyke
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from his knees, he felt the pull to Ashlyn growing stronger, clearer—and it told him that she was waking.
***
Upstairs, Cole and Martinez fought an all-out war. Flamethrowers sent out long streams of liquid plasma, incinerating scores of pony sized spiders. Everything was alive with energy—life—noise. It was a war that raged amidst a background of tranquil, crystalline beauty—a battle being waged from within the courtyard of the Emerald City.
Outside, just beyond the cavern of crystalline webs, the violent winds of the storm front began to arrive, bringing with them turbid clouds filled with rumbling thunder and lightning. Without mercy, the lightning lanced through the darkness, striking the webbing. The webs now sang a different song, a song of war, a song of foreboding. It resonated in the heart like the beats of a kettledrum, and from somewhere in the far distance, behind it all, the winds howled through the web-strings like the cry of a lone, ghostly wolf.
As for the webs themselves, they mirrored the light of the plasma-flames in a million faceted reflections, turning night into day. The spiders, invigorated by the sound and charred smell of their own roasting brethren, poured in. It was a battle to which every spider within twenty kilometers was invited.
Stratt and Moore acted as spotters, occasionally firing a rocket into the heart of an approaching swarm. They tried to use the missiles sparingly for fear they would shatter too much of the webs’ heavy foundation and bring the cavernous structure crashing down upon them.
Everything within a hundred meters was in flames. At first, the spiders had simply tested the perimeter’s defenses, but now their numbers were huge. They blackened the buildings and webbing, advancing on all fronts. The noise they made was deafening—a cacophonous clacking, squealing sound that grated upon the nerves.
The flamethrowers scorched hundreds of spiders. They crackled and sizzled, many bouncing on the ground like giant kernels of popping corn as their abdomens burst.
The spiders had arrived fifteen years ago, days after the original attack. Earth’s surface was but a graveyard of dead when the enemy carrier ships released hundreds of thousands of spiders on each continent. They were amazing scavengers, and once the easy food was gone, they ferreted out the few remaining survivors who had managed to find shelter below ground.
Within three months, their human food source exhausted, they grew bolder and more aggressive. Recon missions had observed battles taking place between warring factions of spiders, the flesh of their own dead going to the winners. The spiders adapted, learning that the larger the hunting pack, the more likely the success of victory against smaller numbers. The strategy—very human.
Today, Stratton’s team witnessed a new, tactical stratagem, the ability to attack in thickly churning, rolling waves. The spiders worked together, turning their armor plating outwards, shielding those beneath. As the ones on the front lines died, those behind crawled to the surface, providing new layers of fresh armor.
“Welcome to Hotel Hell, little buggies,” said Martinez as his flamethrower sent out a long stream of fiery plasma in their advancing path.
***
In stark contrast to the inferno raging above, the world in which Steven moved was one of frozen, torturous pain. His suit was out of power, and a light layer of ice formed atop it began to hinder his movement. He had no heat, no air. Each breath was a last desperate gasp for life as blood vessels in his oxygen-starved lungs burst.
As his heart guided him to her, he fell, first once, then twice, taking him longer and longer to rise after each fall. His arms and legs were little more than lifeless, mechanical stumps.
In the background the facility’s computer announced, “Self-destruct will occur in T-minus 1 minute.” The computer began verbally counting down the final seconds.
The
***
Upstairs, Cole and Martinez fought an all-out war. Flamethrowers sent out long streams of liquid plasma, incinerating scores of pony sized spiders. Everything was alive with energy—life—noise. It was a war that raged amidst a background of tranquil, crystalline beauty—a battle being waged from within the courtyard of the Emerald City.
Outside, just beyond the cavern of crystalline webs, the violent winds of the storm front began to arrive, bringing with them turbid clouds filled with rumbling thunder and lightning. Without mercy, the lightning lanced through the darkness, striking the webbing. The webs now sang a different song, a song of war, a song of foreboding. It resonated in the heart like the beats of a kettledrum, and from somewhere in the far distance, behind it all, the winds howled through the web-strings like the cry of a lone, ghostly wolf.
As for the webs themselves, they mirrored the light of the plasma-flames in a million faceted reflections, turning night into day. The spiders, invigorated by the sound and charred smell of their own roasting brethren, poured in. It was a battle to which every spider within twenty kilometers was invited.
Stratt and Moore acted as spotters, occasionally firing a rocket into the heart of an approaching swarm. They tried to use the missiles sparingly for fear they would shatter too much of the webs’ heavy foundation and bring the cavernous structure crashing down upon them.
Everything within a hundred meters was in flames. At first, the spiders had simply tested the perimeter’s defenses, but now their numbers were huge. They blackened the buildings and webbing, advancing on all fronts. The noise they made was deafening—a cacophonous clacking, squealing sound that grated upon the nerves.
The flamethrowers scorched hundreds of spiders. They crackled and sizzled, many bouncing on the ground like giant kernels of popping corn as their abdomens burst.
The spiders had arrived fifteen years ago, days after the original attack. Earth’s surface was but a graveyard of dead when the enemy carrier ships released hundreds of thousands of spiders on each continent. They were amazing scavengers, and once the easy food was gone, they ferreted out the few remaining survivors who had managed to find shelter below ground.
Within three months, their human food source exhausted, they grew bolder and more aggressive. Recon missions had observed battles taking place between warring factions of spiders, the flesh of their own dead going to the winners. The spiders adapted, learning that the larger the hunting pack, the more likely the success of victory against smaller numbers. The strategy—very human.
Today, Stratton’s team witnessed a new, tactical stratagem, the ability to attack in thickly churning, rolling waves. The spiders worked together, turning their armor plating outwards, shielding those beneath. As the ones on the front lines died, those behind crawled to the surface, providing new layers of fresh armor.
“Welcome to Hotel Hell, little buggies,” said Martinez as his flamethrower sent out a long stream of fiery plasma in their advancing path.
***
In stark contrast to the inferno raging above, the world in which Steven moved was one of frozen, torturous pain. His suit was out of power, and a light layer of ice formed atop it began to hinder his movement. He had no heat, no air. Each breath was a last desperate gasp for life as blood vessels in his oxygen-starved lungs burst.
As his heart guided him to her, he fell, first once, then twice, taking him longer and longer to rise after each fall. His arms and legs were little more than lifeless, mechanical stumps.
In the background the facility’s computer announced, “Self-destruct will occur in T-minus 1 minute.” The computer began verbally counting down the final seconds.
The
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