After the Collapse by Paul di Filippo Page B

“We should sight our destination some time tomorrow. It occurs to me that we should arm ourselves in advance with our logic bombs. Everyone make three apiece, and some sort of bandolier that can also hold your UPD.”
    Having complied, the wardens tested the fit of their bandoliers that cradled, across their furry muscled chests, the biopolymer eggs stuffed with antisense silicrobes, deadly only to the smart magma mind of Mauna Loa. Storm thought the UPD strapped to his back was a bulky and awkward feature, but refrained from questioning Pankey’s orders.
    Pankey went around testing and tightening buckles before registering approval.
    “Fine. Well done. Now, as to our chosen delivery method. We’ll halt offshore by day and study our terrain maps one final time. We’ll land under cover of darkness and split up, heading to Kilauea on pawfoot by a variety of routes. At any major vent near the summit caldera, feel free to bomb the living shit out of this volcano bitch!”
    Pankey’s curse-filled martial bravado rang false and antithetical to Storm, and he noted that the rough talk failed to inspire any signs of gung-ho enthusiasm in the rest.
    Storm asked, “Can we expect any support from the weather mind? Maybe some storm coverage to shock the defenders?”
    “I considered asking for that. But any bad weather will impede us just as much as it hurts Mauna Loa’s slaves. No, stealth is our best bet.”
    “What about our swords?”
    “Listen, Storm, all that swordplay onboard was good exercise and fun. It took our mind off our problems. But if you need to use those toothpicks on land, it’ll be too late for you already. You’d best leave your sword behind. It’s just extra weight that’ll slow you down.”
    “I’m taking mine.”
    Pankey shrugged. “Junior knows best.”
    Storm noticed that Jizogirl appeared about to second Storm’s objection to venturing forth unarmed. But then the doe relented, and said nothing.
    Storm slept only fitfully, so angry was he at Pankey’s rude dismissal of him. So when dawn was barely a rumor, Storm was already up, alone of the wardens, and defecating over the edge of the vessel.
    Looking sleepily into the dark foaming waters that had swallowed his scat, Storm hoped for a return of the dolphin diplomat, for more talk that might help him decide whose side he was really on.
    But instead he saw a sleek gray hand and arm emerge to grip a ridge halfway up the hull.
    He convulsively tumbled off his lavatory perch to the deck, then scrambled to his feet. A pair of hands now gripped the railing, then another pair, and another—
    These were no innocent emissaries. Mauna Loa’s promise not to interfere had been a lie. She had just been stalling, till she could outfit these attackers. Suddenly, Storm felt immense guilt at having kept the earlier visit a secret. The wardens could have been prepared for invasion by this route—
    “Foes! Foes! Help! Attack!”
    A wet torpedo face that seemed all teeth materialized between the first pair of hands. Gills flapped shut, and nostrils flared opened.
    Storm dove for his sword. The other wardens were stirring confusedly. Storm kicked them, slapped them with the flat of his blade.
    “Swords! Swords! Get your swords!”
    Turning back toward the rail, Storm faced the intruders fully.
    The handsharks fused anthropoid and squaline designs into a bipedal monster all gray rugose hide and muscles. Neckless, their shark countenances thrust forward aggressively. Each wore the pebbled slave cap of the magma mind, clamped tight. A fishy carrion reek sublimed off them.
    Involuntarily bellowing his anger and fear, Storm rushed forward, sword at the ready.
    He got a deep resonant lick in on the ribs of a handshark at the same time he was batted powerfully across the chest. He went down and skidded on his butt across the wet deck. Leaping back to his feet, he confronted another monster—the same one?—and slashed out, blade landing with a squelch across its