Capella’s hard light burned down on his bare head, scorched his already sunburned shoulders. The heat waves rising off the hard basalt and low vegetation amazed him. Sort of like looking across the top of a hot stove. He’d never seen such a thing, even when he’d been on Earth those few days.
Being out in the open was still too new, the light, the moving air, the endless sky, all that musical sound from the wildlife. It scared him. Way down deep. Not to mention that he might be dead in a matter of moments.
The plan had made so much sense when he pitched it to Petre. But it was one thing to propose such an absurd idea while sitting in the cafeteria over a cup of delicious mint tea. Quite another to be creeping up to the airtruck, knowing that if the marine guarding it peered over the side, he’d be shot within an instant.
His heart hammered in his breast. A sheen of nerve-sweat had broken out on his face, neck, and chest. He felt sick to his stomach, muscles quivering.
Step by step, he made his way closer, and yes, right on cue, here came Svetlana, five of the children in tow as they emerged from the garden. The children—having been coached—caught sight of the airtruck, and at a whispered command, charged forward, shouting, laughing.
Perfect!
For the first time, Vartan entertained the faint hope that he might survive this after all.
Sure, the Messiah always promised that anyone who died would be reborn. That through the Irredenta, they were all immortal. It came across as such a reassuring thought: His flesh would be consumed, purified, and his immortal soul would travel the maze, find its way into a woman’s womb during intercourse. That he would be born again.
He licked dry lips and wondered if he really and truly believed.
The children were almost to the airtruck. The guard would have his attention focused solely on them.
Vartan sprinted for the airtruck. Reached the side. He flattened himself. Panting, he tightened his grip on the tape-wrapped stave of flexible steel.
It had come to him: If the Supervisor had left them defenseless, they’d have to craft their own weapons. Rail guns and rifles were too complicated. But humans had been building weapons for all of their existence. Bows were still used in sporting competitions back in Solar System.
He’d found the length of steel, tested its flex, and fashioned the bowstring from thin cable. The arrow, he had crafted from a dowel. To create fletching, he cut plastic to shape.
Not only that, but in practice, he could hit a man-shaped target dead center from ten paces.
“Hey, back away!” the guard bellowed from the cab door.
“They’re just children!” Svetlana’s voice protested.
“I said, get away!”
Vartan’s heart had turned manic. Sweat was trickling down the side of his face. Fright bunched in his throat.
He crept around the front of the vehicle, saw Svetlana’s subtle gesture to wait. She shooed the children away, stepping close to the airtruck. “What would you do? Shoot me? An unarmed woman?”
“Listen, we don’t want trouble.”
Vartan crouched, Svetlana at the edge of his vision as she walked up to the airtruck. “Step down here. Let me see you. Been a lot of years since I’ve seen another man.”
“Can’t ma’am.”
Svetlana looked around. “Hey, uh, there’s only you and me. The kids are gone. I mean it. I want to look at you. Surely an undernourished and naked woman isn’t a threat to a big man with a rifle.”
The guard laughed, clearly uncomfortable.
“It’s the scars, isn’t it?” she said after a pause. “That’s what fascinates you. They all mean something. It’s for the souls of the dead. Oh, come on. You’re not going to be able to see from up there.”
Vartan heard the man step down from the cab. Svetlana backed away, giving him room. Asked, “Is it the spirals on my breasts? That’s for the souls to follow when an infant suckles.”
“Clap trap in buckets, but that had to hurt.”
Svetlana had maneuvered him so that the guard’s back was fully exposed. Vartan stepped out from the airtruck, nocked his arrow, and pulled it to full draw. It was all his muscles could take. The arrow wobbled as he centered the tip in the middle of the man’s back.
The seemingly broad expanse of the guard’s dark shirt became Vartan’s universe. Time seemed to slow. In that instant he felt Capella’s heat, the sweat beading on his skin. Heard the rising and falling of the chime. Was aware of Svetlana’s dark gaze holding the guard’s, willing the man’s attention into her own.
Vartan’s fingers slipped off the bowstring. The stave shivered in his hand as the aluminum arrow leapt forward, caught the man just to the right of the spine, punched through the chest.
For a moment, the guard staggered, glanced down, as if in shock.
Svetlana wheeled on her heel, sprinting for all that her thin legs could carry her.
The guard managed to shout: “Supervisor. Carson here. They’re making a try for the airtruck.”
Then he lurched sideways, crashed into the side of the cab. Tried to prop himself. The rifle discharged with a booming concussion. Dirt exploded as the bullet tore a divot from the ground.
Vartan watched the rifle drop from the guard’s hands to thud into the dirt. Then the man sagged, seemed to wilt. When he coughed, it was to blow a spray of blood across the side of the airtruck. A moment later he was down, gasping as frothy lung blood gushed from his lips.
“I’ll be . . .”
Any revelry was cut short by the bang, muffled as it was from the inside of the admin dome. Scratch one Supervisor. Though it would break Shyanne’s heart that Fatima’s life had been the price.
Vartan, wiped his hot face. Stepped warily forward. He reached down, snagged the rifle away, awed by how heavy it was. Then he jerked the pistol from the man’s belt.
He caught a momentary glimpse of the man’s wide and straining eyes. Gaped at the blood, so much blood, gurgling up from his throat.
Then Svetlana was there, grinning. “Worked! Good shot!”
“Feast tonight, huh?” he mumbled, still too amazed at what he’d done to think straight.
The sound of gunshots could be heard from inside the dome. What the hell?
She clapped him on the shoulder. “Sounds like trouble in the admin dome. Now, you do know how to work that rifle, right?”
“Oh, yeah.” He performed a chamber check, finding a round loaded. “Guess I better go make sure the Messiah and Prophets are all right.”
He was panting by the time he arrived at the dome. People were crowded into the cafeteria, pressing around bleeding bodies who’d been laid onto the long tables.
The Chosen. Three of them. Looked like Burht, Shyute, and Wamonga.
Hurrying down the hall, he found Petre and the members of the Will huddled at the junction of two hallways.
“Got the airtruck,” he told them. “What’s happening here?”
“They slipped out of the trap. Shot three of the Chosen.” Petre spared him a worried glance. “They’re holed up in a stairwell at the far end of the hall. There’s no way to rush them without being shot.”
“Don’t be a fool. They’re in the basement, headed for another stairwell, figuring to get out behind us. Make a try for the airtruck. Quick. The rest of you! There’re three more stairways. Block them. Seal them any way you can. Pile whatever, but be sure they can’t get out.”
He turned, seeing Tikal. Tossed him the marine’s pistol. “Get to the airtruck. Keep it safe. Shoot any of the Supervisor’s party who try to take it.”
People seemed to explode into action, flying off in all directions.
“Should have thought of the other stairwells,” Petre said sheepishly.
“If they break out, I can still stop them with this.” Vartan slapped the side of the automatic rifle. “Military
grade. I can disable that airtruck if they try and lift off. Assuming they get that far. And if they don’t shoot me before I can finish the job.”
“Just see that they don’t, huh?”
43
Cutting a hole in the plastic wall took all of Talbot’s strength. Good thing it wasn’t a load-bearing wall like the one on the other side of the room.
Talbot muscled the flap back. Dya, Kalico, and Muldare scrambled past a couple of crates. They slipped through the slit and into the darkness of the adjoining room. As a sensor picked up their movement the light panel flickered to life. The way the ceiling curved meant they were in the rear of the dome. One of the axial hallways would be just beyond the closed door.
“This way,” Talbot whispered, hearing Batuhan’s demands for a response issuing through the hole behind them.
“Shoot our way out?” Muldare asked, flipping her safety off.
“It’ll mean killing a lot of people,” Kalico ground her teeth.
“What part of ‘them or us’ don’t you get?” Muldare hissed back.
“Is there another way out of here?” Dya whispered. “One that doesn’t leave dead bodies all over?”
“Yeah,” Talbot said. “But you’re not going to like how we’re going to have to do it.”
Kalico said, “Get us to the airtruck without turning this into a bloodbath. There’s women and kids out there.”
Talbot nodded. “Fenn Bogarten and I were all through this installation. We’ve got a way out, but it’s down, through the basement, into an old lava tube in the basalt. While Fenn and I didn’t check it out, it should take us into the forest. From there we can circle. Get to the airtruck from behind.”
Kalico gave him a slap on the shoulder. “Lead forth.”
Talbot unslung his service rifle, opened the door a crack, and leaned out. Seeing no one, he led the way into the hall. Lights flashed on as the sensor detected their motion.
The air seemed to pulse, suck, and blow; the dome shook as concussion literally blew Muldare through the doorway and into the hall.
“Briah?” Kalico asked the disheveled marine, “you all right?”
Muldare shook her head, worked her jaw back and forth to clear her ears. “Good to go, Supervisor.”
“Hey!” someone shouted from down the hall.
Talbot didn’t hesitate, but wheeled on his heel, lifted the rifle, and sent a shot in the direction of the young man who’d stepped into the hallway.
“There went our period of grace,” Talbot growled. “Beat feet, people. Follow me.”
He shoved past, heading for where the hall dead-ended against the dome. At the last door, he wrenched it open, tapped the light pad, and told the women, “Stairway. When you hit the bottom, we can’t get through the walls down there. They’re all load-bearing, so we’ve got to go back to the center. When you get there follow the first radial hallway to the left. Take it all the way back to the circumference. I’ll be right behind you.”
As the others started down the stairs, Talbot watched the hallway, took the time to thumb a replacement round into the rifle’s magazine.
Shouts sounded, and yes, here they came—a knot of men led by the throne bearers and carrying what looked like clubs and spears.
Talbot took his time, braced his rifle, and shot the leader through the chest. As the leader fell, Talbot’s second shot took the next man in the left shoulder. His last shot hit the third man center of mass. As they tumbled, howled, and screamed, those behind turned and ran.
Talbot bellowed, “That’s just the start! Next man to come down this hall, I’m popping out this door and shooting the dumb pus-sucker.”
He dropped back, eased the door closed, and pulled a screwdriver from his belt. This he hammered into the jamb with the rifle butt. Wouldn’t hold them for long, but it might slow them down.
In the hallway, shrieks and mayhem told him that the Unreconciled were too busy retrieving their dead and dying to follow for the moment.
Scrambling down the stairs, Talbot hit the hallway, running full-out for the center. At the hub, he took the left in time to see Muldare at the far end, bringing up the rear. The light panels, being old, flickered, but illuminated the way.
Talbot pounded down the hallway after them.
“Now what?” Kalico asked as he arrived, panting, his rifle at the ready.
“Forget the doors to either side. It’s just unfinished storerooms. They excavated this, figuring the base was going to grow. The assumption was that it would eventually house more than a thousand colonists.”
He stepped past to the big cabinet that blocked the end of the hall. Handed his rifle to Dya. “Briah, give me hand here.”
Together they grabbed the cabinet, muscled it to the side to expose a sialon door set in the basalt. Talbot clapped the dust from his hands, saying, “Bogarten and I didn’t figure the Unreconciled needed to know this was here. It would have just gotten them into trouble.”
“What the hell did they need that big a lock for?” Kalico asked as she gaped at the oversized bolt on the door.
“Maybe we don’t want to know what they were trying to keep locked on the other side.”
Talbot slid the heavy bolt back and opened the door, looking into the black maw beyond. “Briah, tell me you’ve got a light in that utility belt of yours.”
“Sure.”
“Inside. Now,” Talbot ordered. After the women hurried in, he slid the cabinet back as far as he could to block the door, then closed it behind him.
“You were right.” Dya eyed the darkness, running nervous hands up and down the backs of her arms. “I’m not liking this at all.”
Muldare was shining her light around the irregular sides of the old lava tube. “What is this place?”
“Volcanic eruption,” Talbot told her. “As a result of the meteor impact. There are places where the lava runs hotter than the surrounding rock, and when it drains out it leaves these tunnels behind.”
“What now?” Kalico asked. “Where does this go?”
“Supposedly all the way to the base of the escarpment,” Talbot told her. “But no one’s been down this since the base was built.”
“I can’t do this,” Dya whispered.
“Sure, you can,” Talbot told her, hugging her close.
“There’s something in here with us. You can feel it, can’t you?”
Kalico turned to the woman. “Hey, it’s either this, or you can go back. Batuhan will kill you, chop you up, and eat you. Then as your flesh is purified by digestion, your soul can figure out the maze, avoid getting sucked out his nipples, or finally ejaculated into a fertile female.”
Dya made the most horrible face Talbot had ever seen his wife make. “You’re right. There’re worse things than dying in terror. In the dark.”
He kissed her fondly on the lips, saying, “I’ll be right here with you, wife.”
DISBELIEF
I stand over the bodies of the Chosen. Petre and his members of the Will have carried the bodies of my dead friends to the cafeteria, have laid them out one by one on the tables. Blood drains from the holes blown in their chests. Their eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, the bodies limp in death.
Three friends, three believers. The repositories of so many of our dead. They were my priests. They helped me bear the burden.
Jon Burht was the first to declare his faith. I stare down at his face, remembering those terrible days during the Harrowing and Cleansing when he stood at my side.
Then came Felix Shyte. I step over, take his hand. It is cold and limp as I run my thumb over the scars running back in thin ridges from the tops of his fingers.
Will Wamonga was the third to join me. Now he lies shot clear through and bleeding, taken far too soon.
For the moment all I can do is stare down at them. At the terrible wounds that heartless
bullets have torn through their flesh, bones, and organs.
Only Ctein Zhoa is left of the Chosen. He stands to the side, expression traumatized, as if he cannot come to grips with the horror. He is wringing his hands. Tears streak down, losing themselves in the maze of scars carved on his cheeks.
The Chosen must be processed, of that there is no doubt. We must attend to them first thing, before the dead they host can dissipate.
Or so I hope.
We are in uncharted waters here. What are the spiritual ramifications of so many living hosts all dying at once? How do we save the dead they contain, as well as themselves?
I glance over at the Prophets where they have been reinstalled in the cafeteria. Irdan isn’t moving. For the moment I wonder if he, too, is dead, and then I see his chest spasm. Callista and Guan Shi are staring out with empty eyes, but only Guan Shi still flexes her fingers as if she’s playing an imaginary piano.
Petre, a pistol in his hand, rushes in from the back, saying, “They’re in a stairwell, Messiah. I’ve got Vartan covering the doorway with that rifle we took from the marine guard. I’ve had the other stairwells sealed off. They can’t get out.”
He is looking at my dead Chosen, a barely suppressed horror in his eyes. Like me, he has to be wondering how this could have gone so terribly wrong. We are supposed to have the Supervisor and her people on the tables, to be preparing their bodies for sacrament.
Instead, my Chosen are murdered, and we have a single dead marine to show for it. He’s still outside and unclaimed, given as busy as we have been here.
“How did they escape the explosion?” I ask.
“Cut a hole in the wall, Messiah,” Petre says, swallowing hard.
“So we have armed and deadly intruders in our basement. How do we determine their whereabouts? How do we deal with them?”
“Vartan says we need a drone. I remember seeing some in the science dome. They’ll need charging—that is, if the batteries are still any good.”
“See to it. And have Vartan arm one with explosives. I want a flying bomb I can use to kill those people without additional casualties.” I close my eyes and let the rage build. As if the universe is staring over my shoulder, watching, waiting to see if I am capable of solving the crisis.
Unreconciled Page 27