THE FUNERAL PROCESSION
GDI HIGH-COMMAND, ROCK OF GIBRALTAR
12:00 GST
The atmosphere in the Alpha-Omega SCIF was not just tense. It was brittle. The air scrubbers hummed, fighting a losing battle against the pheromones of high-grade human anxiety.
General McCaffrey stood before the main holographic table, his hands gripping the edges so hard his knuckles were bleached bone-white. Sweat beaded on his forehead, despite the chill of the room.
"Magnify Sector 4-Alpha," he ordered, his voice tight. "Give me optical. I want to see their faces."
The image on the table, relayed from the Tianwang-7 satellite in low-Omega orbit, shimmered and sharpened.
It showed the landscape just south of FOB Bedrock. The terrain was a jagged expanse of purple moss and grey rock, dusted with snow.
And cutting a straight line across it was a column.
It was not a war party. It was a funeral procession.
There were fifty of them. Strain-E (Elf) and Strain-O (Orc) warriors walking side-by-side, their weapons lowered, their heads bowed. They wore robes of mourning white, stained with symbols of ash.
In the center of the column floated a bier. It defied gravity, drifting three feet off the ground on a cushion of silent wind magic.
On the bier lay a coffin carved from a single, massive diamond. Inside, perfectly preserved, was the body of the "Princess"—the mage who had incinerated the Russian soldier Sukhoy, and whose head had been taken by the sniper Laska during the Avenger massacre.
Walking beside the coffin was a woman.
She appeared human, perhaps in her late fifties, though her ears tapered to elegant points. She wore robes of midnight blue, embroidered with silver constellations that seemed to move. Her face was a mask of such profound, shattering grief that even the GDI analysts thousands of miles away felt an instinctive pang of pity.
She was crying. Tears of glowing, silver liquid ran down her face.
"Range?" McCaffrey asked.
"Two hundred meters from the FOB perimeter cap, sir," the analyst reported, his voice shaking. "They are walking straight toward the hidden entrance."
"They know," Sir Malcolm Hayes said softly from the shadows. "They know exactly where their daughter's killers are sleeping."
McCaffrey spun around. "Get me a line to Bedrock. Secure channel. I want a localized comms blackout for Asset-1. Under no circumstances is Harris Brown to be informed of this contact. If he finds out the target's mother is knocking on the door... he might snap. We need him controlled."
"General," the comms officer interrupted, pale-faced. "We... we can't lock him out."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because, sir... Asset-1 initiated the call. He's on Line 1."
McCaffrey froze. He looked at Hayes, who merely raised an eyebrow. McCaffrey punched the button.
"Brown. Report."
"She is here," Harris's voice came through the speakers.
It wasn't the voice of a rabid dog. It wasn't the gravelly growl of the Demon in a rage. It was quiet. Still. Almost... respectful.
"You know?" McCaffrey asked.
"I can feel her," Harris replied from the underground dark. "The blood calls to the blood. The Artifact... it remembers the taste of her daughter."
"Stand down, Asset-1," McCaffrey ordered, sensing the volatility. "Do not engage. We are analyzing the threat level."
"There is no analysis, General," Harris said calmly. "She is not here to knock. She is here to bury us."
"Stay put, Harris. That is a direct order. You act when I tell you to act."
"I am waiting," Harris said. "But you better hurry. She is stopping."
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES
Hayes stepped forward, moving past the stunned General. He looked at the satellite telemetry.
"Orbital Dynamics," Hayes barked. "Status of the 'Gungnir' platform?"
"Sir," the Space Force liaison responded, startled. "Gungnir-1 is in a high-elliptical orbit. It is currently passing over the equator."
"Decelerate it," Hayes ordered, his voice devoid of emotion. "Bring it to a geostationary hover over Sector 4. Verify payload status."
"Sir, that's a kinetic bombardment platform. We haven't authorized a 'Rod from God' strike since the simulation phase. The collateral damage..."
"The target is a magical entity capable of engaging a subterranean fortress," Hayes said coldly. "If she cracks that bunker, we lose the foothold. We lose the Gorkhas. We lose the Asset. Move the satellite. Target the convoy."
"Yes, sir."
On the screen, a new icon appeared. A small, red diamond floating high above the funeral procession.
Project Gungnir. It wasn't a nuke. It wasn't a laser. It was a telephone-pole-sized rod of tungsten, tipped with titanium, designed to drop from orbit and hit the ground at Mach 10. It delivered the kinetic energy of a tactical nuclear weapon with zero radiation.
"Satellite in position," the liaison confirmed. "Solution plotted. Time to impact from release: twelve seconds."
"Hold fire," Hayes said. "Let's see if she wants to talk."
THE EARTH MOVES
OMEGA SURFACE
200 METERS FROM FOB BEDROCK ENTRANCE
The procession stopped.
The wind on the mountain died. The snow stopped falling. The world held its breath.
The Queen—the Mother of Grief—stopped walking. She placed a hand on the diamond coffin. She whispered something to the cold face inside.
Then, she looked up.
She looked directly at the patch of empty snow where the camouflaged elevator cap was hidden. She looked through the dirt, through the rock, and straight into the command center two hundred feet below.
She didn't scream. She didn't chant.
She simply raised her right foot and stomped it onto the frozen ground.
BOOM.
FOB BEDROCK, SUB-LEVEL 1
The entire base lurched sideways.
It wasn't a tremor. It was a collision.
"REPORT!" Brigadier General Ironside roared, grabbing a railing to stay upright as the command deck tilted fifteen degrees.
"Seismic event!" the sensor officer screamed. "Magnitude 7... no, Magnitude 8! Epicenter is... directly above us! Sir, the ceiling... the rock strata is liquefying!"
On the surface, the Queen raised her hands. The earth obeyed.
The ground above the FOB didn't just shake; it began to compress.
She was casting a Geomantic crushing spell. She was turning the millions of tons of rock above the humans into a hydraulic press.
Inside the base, steel girders screamed as they buckled. The lights flickered and died, replaced by emergency red strobes.
"Hull integrity at 60%!"
"She's crushing the can!" Ironside yelled. "Get the Gorkhas! Get Harris! We need a sortie!"
"No time!" McCaffrey's voice cut through the comms from Earth. "Ironside, brace for impact! We are firing the Hammer!"
THE WRATH OF PHYSICS
GIBRALTAR SCIF
"She has engaged," Hayes said, his face illuminated by the red warning lights of the hologram. "Green light. Drop it."
"Releasing Gungnir," the liaison said. He flipped a safety cover and pressed the button.
LOW OMEGA ORBIT
The satellite, a dark, ugly collection of trusses and magnetic rails, shuddered.
The clamps holding the tungsten rod released. Small gas thrusters fired, pushing the nose of the weapon down toward the planet.
Gravity took over.
The rod, twenty feet long and weighing nine tons, began to fall.
It hit the upper atmosphere in seconds. It didn't burn up; the ablative coating shed the heat as plasma. It became a streak of white fire, a meteor answering the call of a mathematician.
Mach 5.
Mach 7.
Mach 10.
THE SURFACE
The Queen felt it.
She looked up from her spell. She saw the sky tear open. She saw the new star falling.
For a microsecond, her face shifted from grief to confusion. This wasn't magic. There was no mana signature. It was just... a rock. A very fast, very heavy rock.
She raised her hand, shifting the shield that protected the coffin to protect herself.
IMPACT.
There was no sound at first. The object was moving faster than sound.
The rod struck the center of the convoy.
It penetrated fifty feet into the bedrock before the kinetic energy converted to thermal energy.
Then, the world turned white.
FOB BEDROCK
The earthquake from the Queen was nothing compared to the shockwave of the strike.
The entire bunker was thrown upward, then slammed down. Men were tossed from their bunks. Tanks in the hangar slid sideways, screeching against the floor.
Dust poured from the ceiling, but the crushing pressure from the Queen's spell vanished instantly.
GIBRALTAR
The screen was washed out.
"Impact confirmed," the analyst whispered. "Yield estimate... equivalent to 12 kilotons TNT."
Slowly, the filters on the satellite camera adjusted. The whiteout faded.
A mushroom cloud, made of pulverized rock and steam, rose three miles into the thin atmosphere.
Where the convoy had been, there was nothing. Just a crater, glowing cherry-red with molten slag. The elves, the orcs, the diamond coffin... vaporized. Erased by the wrath of kinetic physics.
"Target neutralized," McCaffrey breathed, slumping against the table. "My God."
"Scan for survivors," Hayes ordered. "I want confirmation."
The thermal scan swept the crater.
"Nothing, sir. No movement. Heat signatures are... wait."
The analyst paused.
"Center of the crater. I have... a contact."
The image zoomed in.
In the middle of the molten glass, on a small island of rock that had somehow survived the vaporization, stood a figure.
The Queen.
Her robes were burned away. Her silver hair was scorched. She was on her knees, her hands held up in a dome shape. A shimmering, translucent barrier of pure, violet magical energy flickered around her. It was cracked, fading, but it had held.
She lowered her hands. The barrier shattered into dust.
She looked at the empty space where the diamond coffin had been. There was nothing left of her daughter. Not even ash.
She threw her head back and let out a silent scream that shook the camera feed.
"She survived a kinetic strike," McCaffrey whispered, horrified. "How is that possible?"
"She is a High-Mage," Hayes said, his admiration evident. "She blocked it. But she is drained. She is alone."
THE DEMON ON THE MOVE
FOB BEDROCK, MAIN HANGAR
The red emergency lights bathed the hangar in the color of blood.
The dust was settling. Soldiers were picking themselves up, checking for broken bones.
The main blast door—the iris that led to the surface elevator—was dented, but intact.
The iris hissed.
It began to open.
"Who authorized a surface sortie?" Ironside yelled. "The radiation... the heat..."
"It's not us, sir!" the door technician yelled. "It's an override! From the inside!"
The door opened wide.
Standing in the elevator, alone, was Harris Brown.
He checked the action on his HK417. He adjusted the straps on his armor.
The demonic mask was calm. The blue eyes were steady.
Captain Russo ran up to the elevator. "Brown! Stand down! That is a kill zone! There's nothing up there but melted rock!"
Harris looked at Russo.
"She is alive," Harris rumbled.
"If she survived that, she'll kill you in a second! We need to wait for the heat to die down, send in the tanks!"
Harris stepped forward. The elevator doors began to close behind him, sealing him in the shaft for the ascent.
"She is grieving," Harris said through the closing gap. "She is weak."
The lift began to rise.
Harris stood alone in the rising box. He could feel the heat radiating through the shaft walls. He could feel the magical resonance of the survivor above.
He pulled his KABAR knife with his left hand, holding the rifle in his right.
He wasn't angry. He wasn't scared.
He was the cleanup crew.
"Time to finish the funeral," he whispered.
The elevator breached the surface. The doors opened onto a hellscape of fire and glass.
And fifty meters away, kneeling in the embers, the Queen of the Shadow-Leaf Clan looked up and saw the Demon walking toward her through the smoke.