Daemons Are Forever

They all stopped what they were doing the moment Giles and his strike force appeared out of nowhere, slamming into the nearest drones and cutting them down without a moment’s hesitation or mercy. The drones surged forward as one, throwing themselves at the invading force. Some had claws, or barbed hands. Some had tools or axes to use as weapons. They all had the same horrid alien look on their faces as they swarmed all over the golden armoured figures, trying to drag them down through sheer force of numbers.

Giles led from the front, swinging his long sword with impressive skill and strength. The heavy blade cut off heads, burst in chests, sliced through flesh and bone without even slowing. He cut down drones or swept them aside, always pressing forward, trampling bodies under his bloody boots. Golden armoured men and women urged forward after him, striking down drones with heavy fists, or extruded golden blades. Blood flew on the air, offal splashed in the streets. The drones didn’t scream as they fell, or beg for mercy. They just kept coming until their bodies failed them, and even then they tried to clutch at golden legs or feet until they died. Giles hacked and sliced and stabbed, swinging his heavy sword in long deadly arcs as though it was weightless. He laughed and cried out happily as he killed, and blood soaked his armour and spattered his gri

Not all his strike force felt the same. Though most fought on with the professional skill of their training, concentrating on the goal of their mission… some just couldn’t do it. They simply weren’t killers, and no amount of training could make them one. They did what they could, and then turned away from the slaughter and came home. No one said anything as they lurched back through the Glass. Medical staff were there, to lead them off to the infirmary. We understood.

Some didn’t make it. Drones swarmed all over them the moment they left the main force and buried them under sheer numbers, beating on their golden armour with misshapen fists.

The strike force couldn’t turn back to rescue them. Speed was of the essence in this operation. They had to reach the tower and take it out with the Armourer’s new bomb, before the drones could come up with some new alien weapon to stop them, as they had on the Nazca Plain. So get in, do the job, and get out. Nothing else could be allowed to matter. The Droods pressed forward, killing everything that wasn’t them, guarding each other’s sides and backs.

We could see the tower, on the far edge of town. A hundred feet tall and more, jagged and asymmetrical, built to alien specifications from strange technologies and organic components. It stood tall and arrogantly proud against an incandescent sky, blazing with u

The Loathly Ones drones were clogging the streets now, packing them shoulder to shoulder as they surged forward to attack the Droods. Giles and his people were having to cut and hack a path through them, like forging a path through thick jungle. Blood and bodies covered the ground, and slowed the strike force’s advance even further. But still Giles led the way, something almost inhuman in his fierce refusal to be stopped. He encouraged his people on with far-future battle cries that meant nothing to them, but stirred their blood anyway. They stuck right behind him, striking down the enemy with dogged determination.

The drones fought us with every weapon they had, from tools and axes they just picked up, to clawed and barbed distorted hands, to a handful of rifles and shotguns. None of them were any use against Drood armour, and Giles was just too good at what he did to be hurt. Blades couldn’t cut the gold, bullets were absorbed by it, and clawed hands scrabbled uselessly at golden face masks. But when Giles finally came in sight of the base of the tower, all that changed.

Up close, the tower seemed to be coming alive, like some great beast waking from a long slumber with murder on its mind. Powerful energies coalesced around it, as though other-dimensional aspects of the construct were imprinting themselves on our reality from outside. The tower looked… realer than its surroundings. Realer than the Droods. Several of the golden figures had to turn away, unable to face what was happening. Giles stood firm. Nothing in the ghoulville had phased him so far, even though he had none of the armour’s built-in protections. I had to wonder if the Deathstalker had far-future technology implanted within him, that he hadn’t got around to telling us about.

Giles glared up at the tower, reached inside his armoured jerkin, and brought out the bomb the Armourer had created for him. It didn’t look like much, just a steel box with a simple timer built into the lid. Giles brandished the box at the tower, shaking it fiercely as though to taunt it, and everyone in the War Room winced. It was never wise to shake things the Armourer had built. But even as Giles bent down to place the bomb in position, he had to straighten up suddenly as a whole army of new drones came rushing out of an opening in the base of the tower that hadn’t been there a moment before.

There was something new and different about these drones. They were all clearly dead, flesh rotting and falling away as they strode jerkily forward, only driven on by the alien will working within them. Their faces were eaten away and some of them didn’t even have eyes anymore, but they all headed unerringly towards Giles and his people. Each of the drones was carrying a rough sword of some unfamiliar metal that glowed disturbingly even in the harsh ghoulville light.

“We’re getting long-range readings on the swords,” said the communications officer. “They’re giving off massive amounts of radiation, but nothing we can easily identify. Best guess is, the metal for those swords comes from the same dimension as the Invaders. The radiation level is rising dramatically; just being so close to the swords is eating the drone bodies up.”

“Will the armour protect our people?” said the Matriarch, to the point as always.

“Unknown, Matriarch. Technically, since the strange matter of the new armour is also other-dimensional in origin…”

“If you don’t know, you’re allowed to say so,” said the Matriarch, not unkindly.

“We don’t know,” said the communications officer. “But the Deathstalker hasn’t got any protection. We should pull him out…”

“No,” said the Matriarch immediately. “He has to plant the bomb. He knew the risks when he went in.”

“And it’s not as if he’s family,” muttered Molly.

We watched the display screens. The whole strike force had come forward to stand between the Deathstalker and the drones so he could concentrate on planting the bomb and setting the timer. The first drone to reach a Drood swung his glowing sword around in a rough, unpractised arc. The Drood put up a golden arm to block the blow, and the glowing blade sheared right through the arm. The armour didn’t even slow it. The Drood screamed shrilly as his severed arm fell to the ground at his feet. Blood spurted from the stump for a moment, before the armour closed automatically over it, sealing off the wound. The Drood staggered backwards, moaning incoherently, and the drones pressed forward.

The Droods tried fencing with their extruded golden blades, but the glowing swords cut right through them. The Droods adapted quickly, using their superior strength and speed to avoid the sword blows, and closed in to wrestle with the drones. They ripped arms off, and heads, but more and more armed drones came streaming out of the opening at the base of the tower, overwhelming the strike force, and one by one the Droods fell, cut down by dead men with alien swords.