W01-F

“With all due respect, we can’t sanely go in with that,” Jemima argued.

The new recruit couldn’t believe she was assigned to this … thing. Its peeling paint, scorched hull, and bulky frame put it closer to the rubbish collector than the war hover-ship.

“She’s the best vehicle you can hope for in a civilian rescue mission,” first sergeant Thompson countered while brushing his massive beard.

In front of the not-so-convinced recruit, he looked at the rest of the crew waiting. All veterans, brothers-in-arms, ready to take a bullet for one another. He slammed the side of the cabin, and the metal groaned in response.

“This old beast has her character but damn she does the job.”

“Yeah, a 01-F, that’s not old, that ancient,” Jemima protested, shaking.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, rookie,” the sergeant Liam responded quite annoyed.

“I know that any other ship here is ten generations more recent than this antique. This ship should be in a museum.”

“This ship has seen more battlefields than you ever will if you keep up that attitude,” sergeant Liam griped.

“Even against bugs?”

She smiled like a predator cornering its prey.

“Especially against bugs!”

“I can’t believe it.”

“And yet, here you are,” the captain-officer remarked. She stepped into the circle of soldiers, her gaze sweeping Jemima from helmet to boots. “If you doubt your assignment, that’s an administration problem. But if you doubt the crew or the ship it’s a life issue.”

She climbed the ramp of the hover-ship and passed her hand on its identification tag. It had been modified with an engraved W in front of it. She did not even turn to her crew.

“For those who are ready: We leave in five.”

One after the other, all members of the 20 souls-crew, climbed the ramp and silently passed their hands on the hover-ship’s tag. All except Jemima. She looked at what she thought would be her coffin. The other ships roared to life, their engines merging into a deafening, furious symphony. W01-F. The name carried weight. What if the sayings were true? Jemima climbed the ramp. Nineteen pairs of eyes bore into her, waiting. The first sergeant Thompson nodded in the direction of the tag. It has been polished religiously, even with her gloves she could feel it. Once Jemima had paid her respects as well, the rest of the crew relaxed, as much as a crew going on the battlefield could.

The rookie sat between sergeants Kami and Liam, still grumpy from their recent interaction. Or maybe it was her usual expression. Jemima’s seat was cracked, and her belt was stiff and difficult to pull. Still, it was better than her cranky neighbour’s situation whose belt was so damaged she had to fasten it haphazardly.

The engines roared, shaking the hover-ship violently.

Without warning, the cabin suddenly steadied.

First Sergeant Thompson murmured a prayer.

Jemima gripped her cracked seat so tightly her fingers left an imprint.

An explosion shook the hover-ship. An ammo clip slipped from Jemima’s front pocket, tumbling across the cargo bay. Thompson snatched it mid-air, but before he could toss it back, another explosion rocked the W01-F. A flash of red engulfed the cabin. They were losing altitude at an alarming speed It took the crew a few seconds to register that the engines had gone silent. Without windows, they had no way of knowing when, or how hard, they’d hit the ground. The engines sputtered. They were still plummeting. Then, with a deafening protest, the engines reignited, slamming everyone into their seats.

“READY FOR IMPACT!” the captain-officer bellowed.

Thompson breathed in. They crashed and slid an impressive distance. Around them the loud but not yet visible chaos of the battlefield.

“Out now!” the first sergeant ordered.

As one they unclipped their belts and stood up. Next to Jemima, the sergeant Liam was fighting against the too-tied knot locking her down. Jemima glanced at the crew gathering by the door but turned back to help first. As soon as she moved, a projectile tore through the hull, punching a fist-sized hole where Jemima’s headrest had been moments ago. In a tacitly agreed urgency, the recruit grabbed her knife and cut the sergeant belt. They gathered in front of the ramp door, weapon ready but head down. Two more projectiles went through the hull like it was nothing. They had crashed 10 seconds ago.

“What are you doing!” the captain- officer screamed.

“The door is stuck. The lever is bent.”

“We do not have time,” she said, more to the ship than the crew. “Push it!”

In the front three members of the crew shoved shoulders first into the door. One time. Two times.

“JINKY!”

The captain-officer made her way to the front. She shattered the hydraulic cylinder keeping it closed. The door-ramp fell over like a dead man.

In front of them, dirt land ravaged by bug passages and bullets impacts. Behind that, their target awaited, a village poorly protected by pikes and a pit. The sun glared through the swirling dust, a blinding haze kicked up by the fallen ramp. Two eyes appeared in the distance.  Two eyes of a villager knowing he was not shaped to fight. Two eyes among many others. They disappeared when another hover-ship crashed just in front of the door. The 12-A, a shiny heavy armed model finished its course 100 metres on their left. in flame, broken in half. Nobody could have survived that. Jemima couldn’t look away. If they had left 3 seconds earlier the entire crew of the W01-F too would be out.

“We are on the wrong side! JINKY!” First sergeant Thompson let escape.

“The wrong side?” Jemima asked confused about what would be a good side on a battlefield.  

As if they heard it, a swarm of bugs crawled over the 12-A as an indistinct dark green wave.

“The side between the village and the bug’s nest.”

“Shut up and shoot!” The captain-officer ordered as she herself started shouting.

“There are too many of them,”

“You’re correct, rookie.” The captain-officer agreed. “Thompson, take three and get the civilians. You have 10.”

“We need more time,” the first sergeant protested.

“We don’t have more time.” Her voice echoed in the team “Klint, Sergie that’s when you want for covering fire. We need all you have.”

Immediately, one of the hover-ship’s machine guns blazed to life, spitting fire in their direction.

She dug her feet into the ground for stability and continued firing alongside Jemima.

“The rookie, Karie, Liam, with me, now!”

The recruit spun around and sprinted toward the village. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a missile fired by the W01-F. The ground shook and she could feel the heat on her back.

Sergeant Liam was already ahead of them. Jemima followed on the first sergeant’s heels. Sergeant Karie joined them, catching up midway.

200 metres to the village.

150 metres.

100 metres.

The villagers began to realize they had come for them.

50 metres.

Sergeant Liam reached the closer villager.

10 metres.

The small team realized the bugs were already there.

Contact.

Liam shouted something. Most of the villagers gathered around, ready to move. But a small group is trapped in a house at the end of the road. A red bug clung to their door. Jemima rushed it.

“Wait!” Thompson yelled.

Jemima fired twice. She was out of ammo. The two bullets barely scratched the bug’s shell but were enough to draw its attention. It lunged at Jemima. The rookie seized her knife. Using the armoured plating on her other arm, she blocked the creature’s mandibles. Her blade pierced its eye with a sickening crack. The creature’s warm and fetid blood dripped on her. It was dead. She was prepared, but a single hesitation, and she would have been the one lying dead.

“Luck of the WOLF!” Thompson yelled as he reached her. “Never shoot a red one at close range! They’re rare, but they explode on impact!”

He handed Jemima the ammo clip she had dropped earlier on the ship. She looked at it uncertain.

But no time for hesitation. They pulled the civilians out of the house. Six more people to protect. They started running back to the ship. Thompson led the movement while Jemima helped the mother with her broken ankle.

Their path back was shrouded in dust, smoke, and the twisted remains of dead bugs. From time to time the hover-ship appeared through gaps in the smoke created by the machine-gun’s heavy bursts. The first sergeant and the rest of the rescues were distancing them, disappearing in the fog. The woman couldn’t jump faster. To ease the stressful situation a swarm growled on their trail. Jemima put the woman on her back and started running as fast as her burning lungs permitted it.

Thompson’s voice crackled through their comms.

“Klint, Sergie, we need some covering fire here! The rookie has a swarm on her!”

“Impossible!” Klint barked.

“What do you mean? Fire! We do not leave anybody behind!” the first sergeant grumbled.

“We can’t! The damn thing is jammed!”

Lucky me, Jemima thought sarcastically as the fog began to fade. She glanced back to see a red swarm no more than 30 metres behind her. Lucky me! she thought again, this time with genuine sincerity.

The ramp appeared ahead of her, and in an instant, she was swallowed by the crowded cargo hold. The recruit collapsed onto the floor, her lips dried as a desert. Sergeant Liam helped the injured woman to her feet, and First Sergeant Thompson did the same for Jemima.

The swarm slammed against the closed ramp, bending it back into place. The civilians screamed as the red swarm’s impact rattled the hover-ship.

But by then, they were already airborne. Jemima had never imagined she’d be this grateful for the stupidly deafening engines’ roar.

Soon the bugs’ noises disappeared.

The terrified screams of the civilians soon turned into cries of relief.

Finally, to grant them a moment of peace, the engines settled into a low hum.

The W01-F was damaged enough to be sent to the scrapyard, but no one aboard would let bureaucracy decide its fate.

“We did it!” First Sergeant Thompson cheered, clapping Jemima on the shoulder. “A few wounded, but JUNKY! What’s one eye or a hand when we get everyone out? Even you, rookie!”

“Shouldn’t I be thanking the ship for that?”

The two exchanged a knowing look. Thompson grinned through his sweat-soaked beard.

“You start to get it, Rookie. The WOLF always comes back.”

They paused, taking deep breaths. They didn’t yet know how many other crews had been lost. But every civilian had been saved.

Jemima could feel the engraved identification tag pressing against her back. She gave it a small, respectful salute.

“Why add the a ‘W’? Just for a catchy surname?” she asked the first sergeant.

“No, far from it. This ‘W’ is the reason we are still breathing. It’s a legacy from before the bugs. It’s a beacon of hope. Let me tell you how the original WOLF took on the legendary Kraken.”

*****

Johnson was the third-youngest captain in the Royal Marines. His reward for graduating top of the Imperial Academy was command of his own ship. Fittingly, his stubborn nature earned him command of the Wolfgang, a century-old, ten-and-a-half-cannon ship. One cannon had rolled overboard two weeks prior, and the remaining one was about as reliable as a sailor on shore leave. It sat uselessly, put aside. Its sails, however, were magnificent, too heavy to deploy quickly, but speed was not a concern. The route was as dreadfully dull as the journey there, especially for a ship lagging at the tail of the fleet.

The mission was a simple escort. Delicacies, ore, and jewels, a mere trifle the King demanded returned from the New Continent. It was meant to be a discreet mission, but even before had left his Highness, every newspaper had caught wind of it. All men among the four ships knew about it. But only the captains knew which ship hoarded the treasure. That was the reason for the sullen attitude of Wolfgang’s Captain. It was not his.

The evening was still young when the sea decided to get angry. Johnson cursed the commodore that refused to anchor near the island they spotted earlier. Now, the young captain anxiously scanned the horizon from the forecastle deck, hoping the lead ship would reconsider its foolish decision. But the temper of the sea made it difficult to keep a visual contact with the rest of the fleet.

A rogue wave nearly hurled the captain overboard, but a frayed shroud caught around his ankle, saving him. His second, a man from the generation of his father, came to help him untangled. Then came the rain, uninvited but relentless. Amid the chaos and without further orders, the Wolfgang had no choice but to struggle to maintain formation.

It was hard to keep the distance with the front ships. The waves swallowed both the horizon and sky. The men on the deck screamed to try to hear each other. Even the bravest sailors were not above slipping in this hurricane. The ship swung as if it was a leaf but somehow managed to keep the direction forward. The commodore’s ship emerged briefly between towering waves, only to vanish behind a wall of water even higher. Thunder cracked through the pandemonium of crashing waves. One bang. A second. By the third, the captain realized. He could see in his second eyes he got it too. It was cannons, not thunder.

We’re under attack! The warning spread like wildfire through the crew. From the wave’s crest, they all saw it. A dark-red, three-masted pirate ship surged riding the chaos, as if born from it, standing defiantly against the fleet. On his main sail, a giant kraken. Another thunderous blast engulfed the commodore’s ship in eerie red flames. The horrific spectacle vanished behind the waves as the Wolfgang plunged into the trough. The crew stood in stunned silence, but there was no time to mourn. They had to haste to aid the rest of the fleet.

A rope holding Wolfgang’s main sail snapped, whipping across the face of a bearded sailor. Deploying it now would be too risky. For now, they had to rely on the smaller sails to reach the battle. In truth, Johnson was merely hoping to survive the ocean’s anarchy.

They crested another towering wave. The Kraken defied all logic as it charged at the two remaining ships. The Wolfgang plunged into the abyss between waves. Navigation was near impossible as the wind shifted unpredictably. Half the crew stood poised beside the loaded cannons, while the rest did whatever they could to keep the ship intact.

They climbed another wave. They witnessed another tragedy. The Kraken slithered between the two royal navy vessels, allowing itself to be flanked. But the Kraken struck first. They all disappeared behind the next wave. Johnson knew this would be the last time he laid eyes on the rest of the fleet. He heard the cannons fire, but his mind couldn’t register it. The enemy wasn’t a vessel, it was a beast of the sea.

“What should we do Cap’n?” His second screamed. “Cap’n!”

“What’s the crew’s condition?” Johnson asked, buying himself time to think.

“Soaked, terrified, but ready.”

“That means they’re still alive,” Johnson screamed. “What’s the watch’s report?”

“He says that monster defies the laws of the sea, Cap’n. And that it has only four cannons.”

“Just two on each side? You’re telling me they took down three royal navy vessels with only four cannons?”

“I’ve been in battles enough to know the rhythm of cannons Cap’n. I trust my ears. They only have four cannons.”

“What cannons!” Johnson cursed.

“All the crew witnessed what they did.”

Two cannons on their side could be a good thing. They didn’t have to fight it. They had to survive it. One assault and they would pass it. He only needed to do what three other more experienced captains were not able to.

There was only one solution, get close and pass it. Any evasive manoeuvre was useless; they were already on a collision course.

“We don’t need to destroy it, just pass it, then we’ll be safe. We only have to survive one assault. The men are afraid, but there’s no avoiding this battle.” Johnson ordered ready to receive a form of complaint. Surprisingly his second didn’t protest.

“Are you sure the men are ready?” he asked uncertainly.

“Yes! We trusted your father, bless his soul. He and this ship have carried us through mission after mission. If the Wolfgang has accepted the son, so will we!” The second confirmed without a trace of doubt in his eyes.

“In that case, full speed ahead.”

“Yes, Cap’tain.”

“And I want all starboard cannons men to fire on their cannons. If we neutralise them, we can pass.”

In the rain, his second ran to inform the crew. Johnson took control of the ship’s wheel. The young captain couldn’t move from the deck. He would witness death paralysed but eyes to eyes.

In the distance, the Kraken emerged once more, its sails raging against the wind.

They were only five waves apart.

Johnson could hear only his blood pounding, and the loose rope of the mainsail snapping in the wind.

Four waves. Just one assault to survive.

Three waves. His men could make it.

Driven by witchcraft, the Kraken erupted through the sea in a burst of dark ink. The stench of brine and decay hit them first, a sharp, rotting tang that clung to the back of their throats. Its prow, jagged like a sea beast’s maw, cut through the water, hungry and unrelenting. As his second-in-command had warned, this monster had only two massive cannons on each side. They were still far, but they only had one opportunity.

Johnson turned the ship’s wheel. The men aimed. The enemy aimed. The Wolfgang fired first. Five cannonballs tearing through the storm-thick air, the gunpowder’s acrid scent still hanging over the deck. Two splashed into the churning sea, vanishing into the abyss. One struck true and an enemy cannon shattered in a deafening blast, flames licking hungrily at the deck. But then, the Kraken stood.

A deep boom. The second cannon fired.

Time seemed to slow. This was no ordinary cannonball. It was a glowing red fireball, a menacing barrel of impossible Greek fire powder. It whistled through the air, leaving a sizzling trail of heat. It was their end. There was no way it would miss the Wolfgang. The Kraken sailed past, certain of its victory. The barrel tore through the hull, bursting out the other side before erupting into a gargantuan explosion over the sea.

The Wolfgang shuddered, but it remained afloat.

A sailor screamed, “It passed straight through the front cannon hatches!”

Johnson realized how lucky they were to have missed those two cannons. Behind them, the Kraken burned, set ablaze by its own ammunition.

Despite the rain and chaos, the men erupted in triumphant cheers. They were alive. The enemy was defeated. Or so they thought.

The captain watched in disbelief. The Kraken burned, yet it still lived. How? By dark forces, there was no doubt about that. As if to confirm his fears, the Kraken turned. It wanted them.

The loose rope of the mainsail lashed against the captain once more. Exasperated, he seized it. Then his eyes widened. He had an idea.

“It’s still alive!” the watchman shouted.

“Deploy the main sail! NOW!” Johnson commanded.

“That’ll take ages!” a sailor protested. “And it’s suicide! The wind’s shifting too much!”

“Didn’t you hear the captain?” the second-in-command quipped sarcastically before climbing the shroud.

Soon ten more men followed.

The Kraken burned, great red flames clawing at the sky, thick smoke billowing around it. Engulfed in fire, yet still in pursuit. The Wolfgang was too slow. They needed the sail quickly.

Why won’t this monster just sink?! Not only was it still afloat but they were gaining on them.

Every minute the main sail wasn’t deployed was a minute the Kraken closed the gap.

The enemy still had three cannons left, and they weren’t done firing.

The sail was down, billowing magnificently. The wind caught violently… from the front. Perfect. The Wolfgang slowed drastically. The Kraken loomed just behind them.

“Cut the ropes! Release the sail!”

Led by the second-in-command, the sailors carried out the order with the energy of despair but trust.

As the Kraken closed in, the Wolfgang’s sail was torn free. The old ropes snapped effortlessly, surrendering to the storm. It soared through the storm, crashing into the Kraken’s towering masts. All 3 splintered beneath the sheer weight of the sail.

The Kraken was defeated, engulfed in fire, crushed beneath the fallen sail.

The Wolfgang surged forward at full speed, leaving the burning wreck to die alone.

Johnson, a young captain, had just realised how fortunate he was to inherit the Wolfgang. As if in response, the ocean stilled. He took a deep breath, his first in what felt like an eternity. The night was still young, but they had survived it.

“That was a reckless move, Cap’n,” his second pointed as he climbed down the shroud.

“I knew it would work,” he replied, patting the ship affectionately.

“How did you know?”

“The signs were there.”

His second-in-command raised a sceptical brow at the so-called signs.

“He wanted to name this vessel simply The Wolf, but the king refused.”

“Your father wanted that?”

“Yes. Bless his soul. He told me the legend of The Wolf every night before bed. It was an ancient marvel, a diligence of incredible resilience, one that survived the fury of Mother Earth herself.”

“And that’s why old Johnson named us The Wolf-gang? I never took him for the superstitious type.”

“Not superstitious, a believer. The Wolf always comes back. The Wolf never lost a life it was sworn to protect, nor did it ever fail a mission… so long as one heeded the signs.”

*****

The area was already covered by scorching smoke.

“We need to move. Could you drive or not, Tara?” the masked figure asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve only held the reins once, and the horse didn’t like it,” the young Tara stated, frightened by the shaking ground.

The earth’s core was raging. Rivers of molten rock carved glowing scars, down the volcano’s flanks, sending showers of embers into the sky. Tara and her father had the honour of delivering the citizens’ gifts to the clergy to the higher temple. But today chaos awakened. She saw her father run into the main chapel just as it crumbled. The gods took his life to save the High Priestess.

“As long as you know how to drive! Let’s go before we die here.

“I’m only a postman, merely a messenger, Your Excellency,” she protested, still helping the holy figure get on the wagon. It was a poor 4-wheel chariot roughly holding planks together. The High Priestess took a difficult exhausted breath then placed hand on Tara’s shoulder.

“Tomorrow you will be a hero, a messenger for the gods, that saved the temple relic.”

Her eyes pierced through her featureless mask directly into the youngling spirit. Her other hand was protecting a wood cylinder. She was younger than Tara expected for someone so revered; she could have been her older sister. No doubt anymore. If the High Priestess believed in her, that meant she could do it.

“Where are the others?” Tara asked. As she grabbed the studded lines and went on the wagon too, the back wheel cracked as usual.

“There are no others anymore, go!” the High Priestess insisted.

“Be careful. Don’t lean on the side panels, they are old.” Tara warned as she loudly cracked the reins.

The horse neighed and the chariot wheels roared. The path was no more. Tara improvised a path as buildings crumbled around her. The chariot jolted through clouds of blistering steam, weaving through pillars of smoke that clawed at their lungs. Controlling the rebellious and afraid horse was more exhausting than ever, but Tara danced with the turbulence. The chariot seemed to naturally adapt to the unpredictable nature of the path to its advantage as they weaved through the erupting volcano’s bursts.

The heated ashes took their marks on the vehicle. Both side panels ignited from the heat as they raced through the inferno. Tara instinctively kicked the left panel, shattering it on impact. It was quick, nevertheless the looseness on the reins made the horse believe he could be more erratic than ever. The High Priestess tried to do the same on the other side but fell. She barely clung to the chariot, coughing as she gripped the burning panel. A cry tore from her throat as the scorched wood seared her palms, blistering her skin. It snapped with the next bump but not without burning the High Priestess hands. Tara was worried, not by the burning, but the blood her Excellency was losing since they left the temple.

That second of inattention was enough for the chariot to deviate and graze a lava flow. Trying to correct it, Tara yanked the reins to the opposite side, causing one of the back wheels to splinter. Thanks to the gods, the other one went loose too when their axes shattered it. The young messenger repositioned her hands on the reins to gain more control. She clenched the reins tighter, her palms searing against the burning studs, but she couldn’t let go. The chariot recovered a semblance of balance.

Just as they neared the lowest buildings, with a sharp crack, the reins snapped. Freed, the ungrateful foal abandoned the chariot to its fate. Tara refused to accept that. She tied the remaining piece of studded leather on her arms. That was when she noticed the strange, canine-like shapes of her fresh scars. In this Temple, she knew that was a good omen. She tried to regain control of their now unrestrained carriage. Even her frantic movements barely influenced its course, and with only two wheels, the wagon refused to stop.

Tara saw it. The small chapel at the end of their path. The last obstacle before the cliff. They needed to go through it. It was darkened by all the smoke in it, making only the cobblestone arch with the wolf god mark above it visible.

The High Priestess fainted in a weak attempt to protest. But Tara believed. She let go. She let the gods take the wheels. Darkness swallowed them whole, the chapel’s arch vanishing behind them.

The chariot was blasted out the other side, launched into the air, freer than ever.

Tara’s face was streaked with ash, but her spirit remained unbroken.

Time stood still. The gods had guided them. Saved them. Chosen them.

Then, gravity reclaimed them.

They crashed into the sea, the chariot shattering on impact.

The back part sank with the body of the former High Priestess. Only her sacred mask remained, floating on the waves.

Tara took it.

She was the Temple survivor.

She lifted the sacred mask and placed it over her face, sealing her fate. The Temple had not perished. It had been reborn in her.

Her sanctified reins would become the new relic, a lasting reminder of this tragic day.

Her father’s chariot, the Wolf’s messengers, her new sanctuary.

Her scars would be the sign of her devotion.

She would be back on the mountain, building a bigger temple. 

The Wolf always comes back. 

The temple’s founding myth of the Wolf God would become the new history she would preach.  

*****

The tribe pack was proud of its ferocious hunters. So, when the group came back a one man, everyone fell silent.

He was ashen with exhaustion and stained red with blood. His, but not only. They fought the beast for five days. Alone, he had hunted it for an additional week. In the end, he remained the only living memory of it.

Wordless, he dropped the corpse of the giant white wolf at the heart of the tribe.

He skinned the animal as if it was the only thing to do.

Each cut honoured a comrade, a friend, a brother.

He returned because he was the fittest to survive.

And he survived only through their sacrifices. His own brother died by his hand when hunger grew unbearable and food too scarce.

From this day forward, no partner would lighten his burden.

The final cut stripped away not just the last of the fat, but the last of his humanity.

And no brother would ever defy him anymore.

He donned the skin of the beast he had slain, a testament to his unyielding determination.

He was now the tribe’s unchallenged chief, the Wolf God.

He was unkillable, unforgiven. His first victims were the local faun.

The Wolf always comes back. 

He would be feared and remembered, yet forever alone, as He understood the curses of the survivor. 

*****

He became a cruel, embittered war chief. He turned into a madman who fell in battle, only after sacrificing many.

The Wolf God’s messenger sparked both revolution and revelation. Her fanaticism drove her followers to make her a martyr before her time.

The Wolf-Gang crew was hanged for desertion the very day they reached homeland.

The W01-F suffered a critical air renewal failure on its return journey. It landed carrying only corpses.

The legendary WOLF always comes back.