Chapter 30 Samson
SAMSON
Son born of a sorceress, destined for the sea, who will come to save thee?
—from the hymns of the Great Serpent
Alarms wailed through the mines as they raced toward the offload site.
Samson lurched flames in front of heat sensors, triggering fire walls to close behind them and cut off the path to the docks.
He glanced at his pod. They had less than thirty minutes until his inferno reached the main chambers of the mine, twenty before the Jantari regained control of the safety system. They were running out of time.
“I’m at the transport bay,” Chandi said in his ear. “Where the hell are you?”
“We’re coming. Ten minutes, max.”
Short, percussive sounds shot through their comms, and Samson flinched.
“Was that pulse fire?” He tapped his comms. “What is that? Skeleton? Skeleton? Fuck, Chandi, can you hear me?”
Static noise blared through his ears, then, “We—we’ve been hit. Seven of them came out of nowhere. One of the transports—”
Her voice cut off again.
Samson swore as something tightened in his chest, fear, worry, desperation bleeding together until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. He ran faster.
They raced down the bend, and through the opening at the end, Samson saw pulse fire ricocheting within the transport bay.
“Fan out! Akino, on me!”
He and Akino shot through the opening, diving to the side and hiding behind a deactivated hovercart while his men ran up to the right. Across the floor, Chandi and her squad crouched behind two transport luggers, taking heavy fire.
“Why isn’t Chandi shooting back?” Akino said.
“Because of that.” Samson pointed at the ore pails at the opposite end of the docking bay. “They don’t want to damage the payloads.”
Seven Jantari soldiers guarded the ore, shouting commands, razing the wings of the luggers with pulse fire. Chandi hid beside the left engine. Move, he thought desperately as the soldiers advanced. Get out of there.
But there was nowhere she could escape to. Samson cursed. His mind raced, anguish clawing at his throat like some wild, cornered beast, as he watched one soldier reach for their belt, for something silver and rigid, and he thought, Slab grenade, just as he shouted, “Chandi!”
The soldier turned. Chandi cried out. And then Akino fired, a clean shot that cleaved through the soldier’s chest. He toppled, the slab grenade bouncing, blinking, and the Jantari ran, shouting “Take cover!” not one thinking to throw himself on the explosive when the grenade detonated.
A searing white light ripped through the bay.
Samson felt its heat a moment before it blew, and he called to it, his Agni churning, seeking, borne on the ancient instinct of finding the familiar, and he met the grenade’s fire with his own.
Blue flames swarmed the shape of the explosion.
Curbed it. Samson snapped his urumi, forcing it to become smaller, imposing his will on its hunger.
Pain ripped up his bicep, needling into his chest with a sudden abrasiveness that made him gasp.
His arm trembled. The explosion wobbled.
But his flames held, lengthening into tongues that finally swallowed the grenade’s inferno into his own.
Samson collapsed, and the flames dissipated into smoke.
His vision swam as Akino barked a command, and the Black Scales who had been sneaking up the end of the bay charged forward, tackling the Jantari.
There were cries, blood-soaked moans. Chandi.
His fear snapped him back, and he forgot his pain, his exhaustion, even his own tired anger against her as he pushed himself to his feet.
“Chandi!” He dodged through the crates and staggered up the ramp, calling her name. “Chandi!”
There was no answer.
Worry, fresh and fetid, churned his chest. Great Serpent, if she’s hurt—
He staggered toward the lugger, crying himself hoarse. “Chandi!”
“Sam!”
She appeared behind the tail of the lugger, blood leaking from her shoulder, and it took all his strength not to grab her.
“You—you’re hit—”
“Get down!”
They slammed to the ground just as a shot skipped off the hull. Akino slashed his urumi through the shooter, ripping off his arm. The man toppled, and Akino made quick work of him after. Only three Jantari remained. Samson’s Black Scales pressed forward, and they raised their arms in surrender.
“Smartest thing they’ve done yet,” Chandi said with a grimace.
Her shoulder wept openly, and Samson tore out the bandages from his kit. “Sit still.”
“General—”
“Sit still, damn it, or can you no longer take orders from me?” he said, his voice cracking. Chandi fell silent, her eyes flicking across his face as he hurriedly wrapped the cloth around her shoulder.
“General,” she began again.
“Chandi, I swear—”
“Sam.” Her eyes met his. “The miners. We still need to get them out.”
His hands trembled as he knotted the wrap. Below them, Akino activated the hovercarts and guided the pallets into the luggers as Chandi’s men, the two who remained, kept watch over the Jantari.
With every second, Samson felt the press of time against his neck.
“Go,” Chandi said as the bay doors opened, revealing the purpling dawn.
Her bloodstained hand wrapped around his wrist. “Take Akino. He’s a better shot than you.
And don’t take too long. Don’t push yourself too hard, too quick.
Promise me, Sam.” And in that moment, as she looked at him with wide, imploring eyes, her voice a plea, a command, the bitter knot in his chest loosened.
Chandi, his fearless commander. The one who knew his fears better than he did and lent him her strength.
He nodded, overwhelmed. She let him go and he rushed into the tunnel without looking back, Akino on his heels.
They sprinted to the bunker as the ground started to rumble.
“The mine’s collapsing,” Samson said, panic spearing down his throat.
He called for his flames and heard in the music of their voices the intoxicating glow of the ore, slowly growing brighter. He could not pull them back now even if he tried.
They descended the tunnel and finally found the metal door of the barracks, the guards gone, their posts abandoned. More concerned about their own lives than the Sesharian ones that lay beyond this door.
“Open the door, Akino,” Samson said.
But as seconds slipped away and Akino cursed, floundering with his pod, Samson felt time tighten its noose around his neck. “Akino.”
“I can’t!” he said. “The Jantari have taken control of the system.”
Fists slammed against the door. Muffled shouts, pleas. Samson felt each snip the threads of his heart until he felt frayed, beaten.
“Akino,” he pleaded.
But the master of arms was shaking his head, his mouth pinched, eyes red.
Samson swore and tore out his urumi. He’d burn down the door if he had to.
He swung the blades, but then pain, sharp and acute, splintered down his arm and he cried out, dropping his urumi.
He stared at his hand. Tiny blood spots began to appear.
It took him a moment to realize his nose was bleeding, and then, that the cold had returned, that insidious, cruel reminder of his own limitations.
He tried to summon a flame, found he could not.
“General,” Akino said as the pounding increased.
“Help!” a voice keened behind the door. “Let us out!”
Suddenly, a squeal pierced the air, like metal grating against metal. They whirled around. Two metal gates, one at the entrance of the tunnel from where they entered, the other at the adjoining corridor, slowly began to slide out.
The Jantari were closing off the mines.
“Mother’s Gold,” Akino swore. He threw himself against the silver door with a roar. Again and again, each attempt as futile as the one before.
Samson could only stare, listening to Akino’s choked curses and the muffled cries beyond the door.
He could not leave his people trapped. He could not let them die as caged animals.
What kind of Prophet would that make him?
But he knew, as deeply as he knew his own Agni, that he needed to leave. They had the ore. Their work was done.
The gates groaned. His victory slipping by, second by second.
Samson clenched his urumi, his knuckles turning white. Before he could stop himself, he stepped back. He pushed himself away from the silver door before Akino realized what he was doing. But his officer saw him.
“General,” he began. Samson could not meet his eyes.
Every step broke him. The glint of the silver door blinded him. But he could not stay. Freedom for Seshar did not lie within these tunnels; it lay above, in the luggers Chandi kept in wait.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice full of grief. “We have to go.”
Rocks tumbled from the ceiling. One as big as Samson’s head slammed between them and split apart.
“I’m not leaving,” Akino said.
“We must.”
“Look me in the eyes and say that.”
But Samson was already turning around, already striding toward the achingly slow door. Perhaps if it closed faster, it would save him the misery of hearing the biting accusation in Akino’s voice.
“Samson!”
As he stepped through, a pulse blazed by his head. Samson whirled around in surprise. Akino held the pulse gun, his arm trembling, tears dripping down his chin. Samson should have felt guilt then. He should have felt thick, bitter shame burning down his throat.
But when he finally met Akino’s eyes, he found only pity. He could see a sliver of Akino’s bloodied cheek, the terror on his face.
“I hope you live,” he said.
And then the door rolled shut between them, damning him and those he left behind.