Anya fired a pulse of Synarchy at Colossus. Her bones ached with the effort of powering such a colossal weapon, but it wouldn’t fire for long. A gray beam about a foot in diameter shot out of the seven-foot cannon. It was wrapped in a yellow-white loop that encircled its instantaneously-created fifty-foot length to the massive weapon in the corner, but nothing happened to Colossus. It wasn’t that the larger weapon couldn’t be harmed— it too was made of flesh like everything else and so it too could be rendered boneless— but rather that there was nothing for Synarchy to melt. It was a giant lump of pure flesh without need for bones, and as such Synarchy couldn’t harm it. Judgement would be of equal worthlessness as the larger weapon was deactivated and thus on no-one’s side, but if Colossus were awake it would be on her side anyway. Pleroma could probably destroy Colossus, but Anya wasn’t about to try and wield Pleroma.

  She did take a few giant steps over toward the radiant sword, but knew instinctively the moment Synarchy’s bloody tendrils went to ensnare it that touching the weapon meant instant death, even for one as powerful as herself or subservient to the Emperor as Synarchy. It wasn’t even wrapped in a glass case. It wasn’t entombed. It wasn’t hidden. Pleroma was out in the open for all to see, because the only way to wield it was to be worthy of its use and there were none who fit that description.

  She knew a time would come where someone would draw the Heavenly God-Destroying Sword of the Emperor, but it wasn’t now, and it wasn’t her. So, instead Anya simply issued the order to leave. There was nothing more for them to do here, and they needed to escape to the surface before it was too late. They needed to get out of these infinite walls and rendezvous with the reinforcements sure to meet them on the surface but likewise sure never to enter this maze-like deathtrap.

  Peter shouted back. “We’ll die if we follow you now. Some of us should stay here and keep guard. You know, to defend the base we were posted to protect.” There was no scythe around his neck, as his words were true and their military purpose clear. Even if this wasn’t a military democracy, Dio supposed the Emperor or other divine seat of power would prefer his soldiers act in ways pursuant to victory more than maintaining respect or decorum.

  “Raethor’s mandate wasn’t to protect these walls.” Yuna said, shouting, “He wanted to protect us.”

  “And now he’s dead.” Jessica shouted back. “We have to serve victory, not dead words.”

  “Dead soldiers aren’t worth anything.” Alex added. “If we follow you and you activate Judgement, you may as well shoot us right here and right now.” Alissa looked nervous and gripped her brother’s arm tightly. She didn’t want to lose him, but at least they might die together.

  “It won’t come to that.” Anya promised. “We have Synarchy, and I swear on the Emperor’s good name that if I have to use Judgement, there will be no other option.”

  Anya had wanted to kill Peter, but her head was clear now. It wasn’t an entirely emotional reaction, but however the same her decision might have been sober, her clouded mind was something to be ashamed of. Military discipline needed to be handed down with a clear head, anything else was nothing short of murder. Peter did deserve punishment for killing Raethor, but as a soldier he was more useful alive, and as her subordinate perhaps she would fare better than Raethor had. At a minimum, her eye was on him and her gun would be too if he tried anything.

  If not her own, then Synarchy’s. She was pretty sure it could operate autonomously so if Peter tried anything it wouldn’t be hard to skirt her sworn mandate. But she could feel a binding weight settle into her chest, and was pretty sure it would explode or otherwise strip her of the authority that beat inside her if she broke it. But the words were enough for her troops, who anxiously prepared themselves for what might be the last and most important battle of their lives. There would be no second chances.

  Peter went to open the door, but Anya stopped him, realizing Synarchy wouldn’t be able to fit. She instead fired a gray-yellow spiraling ray of death at the skin lock, which caused the door to rapidly expand as it opened to a full height of some thirty feet, and the ceiling on the other side appeared to match. There was ten feet of room to spare for Synarchy, though she had no idea where the extra height had materialized from.

  Instantaneously she saw the enemy that had waited patiently for their exit. The endless skinless smiling rows of bodies were desaturated to some 60% of blood, but she supposed that was just how this was going to go. On the bright and perhaps dark side, they did retain this last 60% even as Anya began to fire the ray, signaling the start of combat. It made contact with the first necrite— a skinless 5’6” female wearing torn brown rags. Her skull was split open from what could have been an axe-wound, but that didn’t stop her and a thousand others from pouring into the space. As the ray made contact, however, she stopped in place as her pseudo-skin (composed of the outer layer of muscle hardened by contact with the elements) began to boil from the gaseous products of liquifying her bones. The eyes rolled in place unnaturally as their cheekbones melted, and eventually fell down out of their sockets, hanging loosely as the legs gave way. She fell face-first due to her chest-forward center of gravity, but there was no ample thud at the bottom, only a squishy pile of red jello product rendered ready to serve. Bone had been rendered separate and leaked out of the living but effectively dead corpse via the mouth and other orifices alongside a healthy dose of blood. This milky-red liquid reflected the beam as it fired on the next target, and would soon fill every surface the unit walked through.

  Anya watched as the first body collapsed, its bones having given way to nothing, and squirmed. It wasn’t so bad, watching this, not compared to being brutally molested or worse by an enemy army. Perhaps this one would simply kill her given their mindlessness, but whatever the case she was sure if they had any thoughts perhaps they would prefer the sexual assault. It would depend on degree, of course, but it seemed difficult to imagine how painful the dissolution of bones must have been. The necrites didn’t scream in agony, of course— they were dead silent— but that didn’t help. If anything it made the situation worse as Anya could hear their bones shatter and the disgusting flesh-on-flesh sound of their fall. She was aware how painful a broken femur might be, and had heard it was one of the worst agonies a person could experience. How much worse must it have been for every bone to find their way to absolute weakness at once? It wasn’t like they were rendered instantly liquid. Anya had time to watch their structure give way, which meant the bones must have encountered a point where they were no longer capable of supporting themselves or the flesh attached and collapsed under the weight. This meant effectively breaking every bone in the target body simultaneously. It would of course be possible to remove the ray before the process continued, but given how quickly the remainder of the process was it almost seemed pointless to try. In those last milliseconds after the beginning of a fall in which every bone was simultaneously broken, they were then entirely converted to liquid within.

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  This would have the effect of loosening every tendon in the body simultaneously. Whether the corpses would spasm as every muscle found itself flexing against nothing, or whether they would simply bend inward wasn’t certain. But most of them found themselves overcome by the stronger muscles against the weaker ones, and with nothing to give way but themselves it meant the quads would pull the lacking knees inward and up all the way in like some kind of abortion of a shell-less snail. The calves would win their half of the equation, pulling the shins inward on themselves, but unlike the lower body the upper part was a bit less certain. In some of the larger and stronger-looking men the back muscles won the equation and pulled them outwards, but in others their chests won and pulled them inward toward the folded legs. Most were pulled back, however, meaning the majority of the bodies were packed like a two-spiral suitcase, with their heads facing out. Whether this was a mercy or a curse wasn’t clear, as in the other case they would at least have the pleasure of a fast suffocation. In the majority case the cause of death was less clear. Sure, it was certain you’d die, but how and how quickly wasn’t. Some choked on their own liquid bones. Others were stepped on and had their lungs burst by Anya’s advance. The lucky few were squished into paste by Synarchy itself, but most did not have this luxury. The shock might have killed some, but she didn’t know. Perhaps many or most would suffocate under the weight of their own body not supported above their lungs, but it would depend on the angle they fell at. The only thing Anya knew was that as body after body found itself boneless and ripe to slaughter, she didn’t know if she could keep doing this as a soldier.

  She’d signed up to protect her homeland, but now she was butchering what were certain to be civilians controlled by some higher power. Did they have self-awareness? It didn’t really matter when the choices were to kill or be killed, but there’s really only so much killing one can do before giving in to fate. If all the world stands against you how can you not question if what you’re doing is right?

  But her unit stood behind her as Synarchy pressed forward and Anya knew it wouldn’t be right to abandon them to whatever fate the mindless horde had in mind for them. They would press forward and find themselves outside, and then it would all be ok. But even as she allowed her thoughts to dwell on the future after the slaughter instead of a doomed fate that couldn’t be changed, her muscles and organs and bones all ached with the pain of sustaining Synarchy’s ray of devastation.

  “Peter!” she shouted through exhausted breath, “Get up here I need you!”

  He came from behind and placed his hand over hers and the machine which had integrated itself with Anya’s legs. She didn’t really trust him, but what other choice did they have? Lululu was the only other person who might be able to drive the weapon, but Anya had never synchronized with her before. She at least knew he would be able to help sustain the machine, even if most of the effort would remain hers.

  But Synarchy did not pierce Peter’s flesh with the thousand needles necessary to sustain its boneshed. The weapon utterly refused to allow another participant. Anya’s head fell in disappointment and shame. She wouldn’t be able to keep going at this rate, but Peter smiled softly at her.

  “You’re stronger than you think. Stronger than any of us.”

  She almost felt bad for shooting at him. Almost. But for now he was right. She needed to focus. Anya gestured to her coat-pocket with her head and tongue, poking it out to conserve the effort of moving her hands. Peter raised an eyebrow, but did not comment on the odd gesture. He knew what she was implying, and though he also knew she had taken far more pills than any human could possibly sustain: it was this, or it was Judgement. Peter didn’t want to die more than anyone else, so he reached into her faded blue coat-pocket and pulled out the container one last time.

  He dumped them all in Anya’s waiting open mouth and she didn’t object. Six pills down the hatch. Six capsules of methamphetamine or whatever other good stuff was contained therein. She could instantly feel the difference, as though Pleroma itself was a child’s weapon and the Emperor himself was a baby.

  They stormed forward as Anya’s pulse quickened. Her enormous metallic-fleshen feet made ten-foot bounds as the others struggled to keep up, but one thing was to their advantage: that for every percent increase in pace a percent less firepower was required to the rear. They moved so fast now, in fact, Dio spoke on behalf of the others in demanding she bring them up like Peter.

  Anya complied. There was no more enemy to the rear, not when they outran even the fastest Imperial dog in the good-boy quest of tearing out every throat on the other side of the field. Many would die, but not here. Most would be clubbed to death, but not now. They had been bred for a single purpose. They would die with it in mind. But not until their master told them so.

  And Anya wasn’t a dog. They would escape and best their fate, she knew. It was easy to see this truth as the bodies fell like water parting before the endlessly fast strides of an Olympic swimmer. Beneath them the sheen of death smiled up at them, a red-white reflection of the gray-yellow beam that produced such endless liquid. Below they saw the endless squirming vessels of Synarchy from the underside. Even if an enemy did approach it they were sure those vessels weren’t just for show and transport. Any one could suck a man dry, and yet they refused to take energy from any of the soldiers now. Perhaps Synarchy was intelligent enough to know that once it started to drain a body it could not be stopped. Perhaps even if the connection was severed the machine would mark the donor as a hostile. Whatever the case it didn’t matter.

  Anya saw the gray metal sliding doors and knew they were free. Free at last to escape this place. Freed at last from the endless gray walls. But perhaps it would have been better to stay inside. At least inside her hopes could have been uncertain. Out here… they were all but lost.