The stronghold of The Flesh-Mongers did not look like a fortress.
It looked like a slaughterhouse carved into the earth.
Located in a sunken canyon to the South, the air here was thick with the copper scent of blood and the sickly-sweet smell of rotting meat. Cages made of welded bone and rusted iron lined the canyon walls like honeycombs. Inside them, thousands of slaves huddled in the dark, waiting for their turn on the carving tables.
The Flesh-Mongers didn't just sell people. They modified them.
"Disgusting," Ciro's voice crackled over the comms, his tone vibrating with genuine revulsion. He was watching the feed from the tank's external sensors. "They graft animal parts onto humans. They make... pets."
"Not for long," Elara replied from the commander's hatch of the lead Manticore.
She looked through her electro-binoculars. The gate of the stronghold was guarded not by men, but by Flesh-Hounds—men twisted into four-legged beasts, their jaws distended, their skin stripped away to reveal raw, red muscle.
"They see us," Elara said calm.
BWAAAA.
A horn blew—a hollow, wet sound made from a giant hollowed-out ribcage.
From the dark caves, the Flesh-Mongers emerged. They were a terrifying sight. Some had chainsaw arms; others had extra legs grafted to their torsos to make them run like spiders. They roared, banging their rusted weapons against shields made of dried human skin.
They outnumbered Elara's force ten to one.
But math works differently when you have a fusion reactor.
[ENEMY COUNT: 2,150 BIOLOGICAL UNITS.][THREAT LEVEL: MINIMAL.]
The Slaver Boss, a massive mutant named Gorgon who had three muscular arms, stood atop the bone-gate. He saw the five white hovering tanks and the lines of silver droids.
He laughed. He didn't see an army; he saw salvage.
"Look!" Gorgon shouted, his voice wet and gurgling through a distorted throat. "The Metal Queen brings us new toys! Strip the armor! We will use the metal for new cages and the meat for the dogs!"
The horde of mutants charged. It was a tidal wave of red muscle and rusted steel, screaming for blood.
Elara didn't flinch. She didn't even close the hatch. She pressed a single button on her console.
"Centurions," she commanded. "Phalanx formation. Suppressing fire."
The two hundred silver droids stepped forward in perfect unison.
CLANG.
They raised their heavy pulse rifles.
PEW-PEW-PEW.
It wasn't a battle. It was a meat grinder.
The blue energy bolts from the pulse rifles didn't just pierce; they burned. The heat cauterized wounds instantly, preventing any blood spray. Flesh-Hounds vaporized mid-leap. Slavers with chainsaw arms found themselves cut in half before they could even rev their engines.
The charge broke in seconds. The mutants faltered, confused by the enemy that didn't scream, didn't bleed, and didn't miss.
"Tanks," Elara ordered. "Clear the gate."
Ciro, sitting in the gunner seat of the lead Manticore, grinned. He gripped the dual control sticks.
"Say hello to the sun."
He pulled the triggers.
THOOOM.
The Dual Plasma Cannons fired.
Two balls of blue superheated plasma, shining like miniature stars, streaked across the canyon. The air shimmered and distorted around them.
They hit the bone-gate.
There was no debris. The gate didn't shatter; it sublimated. The bone, the iron, and the guards standing on top of it simply ceased to exist, turning into a cloud of superheated gas.
Silence fell over the canyon.
The remaining Flesh-Mongers stared at the smoking crater where their gate used to be. Their primitive brains couldn't process the physics of what had just happened.
"Move in," Elara said. "Centurions, stun mode for civilians. Lethal for combatants."
The tanks floated over the crater, their engines humming a low, menacing dirge.
"You... you cheat!" Gorgon screamed from the back lines, realizing his army was melting. "Release the Beast! RELEASE THE GORE-HULK!"
The ground shook.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
From the deepest cave, a monster emerged.
It stood twenty feet tall. It was a masterpiece of biological horror—a giant stitched together from the corpses of ogres, bears, and machinery. It had no eyes, only a mouth filled with rotating saw blades. Its skin was thick, scarred leather reinforced with iron plates.
The Gore-Hulk.
It roared, a sound that shook dust from the canyon walls. It charged the lead tank, shrugging off the rifle fire from the Centurions like rain. Its massive fist raised to crush Elara's Manticore.
"That's a big boy," Ciro noted dryly. "Elara, backing up."
"No," Elara said. "Hold position."
"He's going to dent the paint!"
"He won't get close enough," Elara said calmly. "Target the knees, Ciro. Then the head."
The Gore-Hulk swung its fist.
Ciro swiveled the turret. The Kinetic Gatling Gun on the side of the tank spun up.
BRRRRRRT.
A stream of tungsten bullets sawed through the monster's legs. The thick leather hide offered no protection against anti-armor rounds.
The Gore-Hulk screamed as its knees disintegrated. It toppled forward, crashing face-first into the dirt just meters from the tank, its massive fist landing harmlessly on the ground.
It tried to crawl, its regenerative factor trying to knit the bone back together.
"Finish it," Elara said.
Ciro aimed the main cannon point-blank at the monster's head.
"Goodnight, ugly."
THOOOM.
The Gore-Hulk was headless. The body convulsed once, then went still.
The remaining Flesh-Mongers dropped their weapons. They fell to their knees, not in surrender, but in absolute terror. Their god-monster was dead. Their gate was gone. Their army was ash.
The white tanks hovered over them, the barrels glowing hot with residual energy.
Elara opened the hatch fully and stood up. She looked out over the cages, where thousands of slaves were watching through the bars, their eyes wide with disbelief.
She activated the external speakers.
"Gorgon is dead," Elara announced, her voice echoing off the canyon walls. "The Flesh-Mongers are dissolved."
She pointed to the cages.
"Centurions. Break the locks."
The silver droids marched toward the prison cells. They didn't use keys. They used their armored hands to rip the rusted doors off their hinges.
CREAK. CLANG.
The slaves stumbled out into the sunlight. They were thin, dirty, and traumatized. They looked at the dead mutants, then at the pristine white tanks, and finally at the woman standing atop the machine of war.
One slave, an old man with a missing arm, limped forward. He looked up at Elara, tears streaming down his face.
"Are you... an angel?" he whispered.
Elara looked at the destruction she had caused. The smoke, the ash, the bodies.
"No," Elara said softly. "I am the Ash Queen."
She turned to Ciro.
"We can't fit them all in the APCs," Elara assessed the crowd. "Call the heavy transports from the city to carry the wounded. For the rest... form a convoy."
She looked back at the slaves.
"We walk together," Elara declared. "No one is left in the dark."