Houchen could hardly believe the mess when he and Khan arrived back at the northern colony, but the walls were still intact, the colony survived, and that was all he could have asked for.
No, not quite true. He would have liked to know about the man who had fought on even when he knew it would cost him his life, and the crippled Bolo who had shielded an entire colony with his war hull. But they didn't know, not even their names. They just knew there had been one survivor of the Odinberg Colony massacre, and now there were none.
The hull was still there, in the charred meadows outside the colony walls, and it would probably still be there centuries from now if the jungles didn't reclaim it. Eventually the grass would regrow, the flowers would bloom, and animals would make their homes in its gutted hull.
Houchen wondered if humans would still be here then, or if they would have taken what they wanted from this world and left it behind. He wondered if any of the aliens would survive, and what stories they would tell of this day.
Surely some of them must have survived to tell the tale. Not many though. The Bolo's hull had done more than shield the colony from the blast, it had redirected it, sending a crescent-shaped shock wave away from the walls of the colony that had flattened trees for two kilometers, and killed aliens by the thousands.
There were still a few attacks, an occasional missile or two, and around half a dozen other colonies around the continent the aliens were as much a threat as ever. But here and now, the enemy's back seemed to be broken. Donning was repairing his fortifications, and they were busy modifying their mining machines to add armor and weapons. Here at least, things might soon be settling into a new routine, something akin to normal.
As Khan rolled past the dead Bolo one last time, he raised his guns in salute, and launched a volley of shots into the empty sky. Twenty-one times he fired.
And then he turned, and they rolled toward the distant horizon. There were other colonies to be defended.
Lord Blackspike pushed himself up painfully with his cane, and hissed in rage at the distant thunder of the human weapons. He had brought his people here, to the deep jungle, far from any of the human nests, so that they could recover and rebuild. But even here, there was no escape from the human devils.
He sat back down on a fallen log and looked around him. The camp was small and ragged. There were only a few warriors left, and most of them were injured or maimed. Some still died slowly from the invisible sickness. What was left were women, eggs, and hatchlings.
Even the oracles were gone, but before Blackspike had left, his sire had come to him and whispered where others could be found.
In time, the hatchlings would grow, there would be more eggs, and in three seasons' time, new warriors to begin again. The Ones Above would show them new weapons. More powerful weapons. Then they would go back.
Then the human devils would pay.
But it was not too early to begin the fight.
Never too early.
"Hatchlings," he shouted. "Your lord commands you, gather round and listen!"
He sat on his log, and the little ones gathered round. He reached into his pouch, his fingers sliding over the cool, smooth bone there. He pulled the skull out and held it up for the hatchlings to see.
"This," he said, "is a human. This is a devil. What do we do to humans?"
At once they began to chant.
Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. . . .