Free Stories 2018

by Baen Books

  Even the threat of our halberds and my sidearm could not contain the murmurs.

  “Crivetto, are you mad!” one voice rose above the rest. Atherton-Clive stood, his face white with fury. “What is this? On what authority do you begin any proceeding? This is an outrageous overstepping of your limited authority! Only the Congregation of the Faithful may call a full trial, and the Congregation-”

  “The Congregation of the Faithful is dead!” thundered the Cardinal Camerlengo, still standing, his fists clenched in the air at chest height.

  Startled, I stared at him, with the rest of the gathered Curia. This had not been any part of our plan.

  “Archbishop Atherton-Clive. Sit. Down,” the Camerlengo said, his amplified voice over riding the archbishop and forestalling any reply. “Or I will have you bound to that pew.”

  Atherton-Clive sat, his bloodless face a sharp contrast to his red-trimmed midnight stole.

  After a moment, the Camerlengo sat as well. My Guard returned to parade-rest.

  “As you well know, I alone remain among the cardinale who led the Congregation of the Faithful,” Crivetto went on in a slightly more normal tone of voice. “We find ourselves in a dark time and at a moment when we must work in concert, we instead confront evil inside our own ranks—inside the very walls of the Holy City. Therefore, we will return to the harshest of God's law. I invoke the Supreme Sacred Congregation of the Roman and Universal Inquisition.”

  Gasps of understanding were suddenly audible.

  “And as to my limited authority-”

  He let his eyes rove around the mostly silent room, passing over the hand-picked Guardsmen that I led.

  The faintest rattle of armor came from one side of the nave. I glanced over at the offending guardsman. It was Taliaferro, from the previous night. He stilled under my look.

  “Crivetto, you're a power mad fool!” Atherton-Clive snarled. He stayed seated. “What evil do you speak of, then?”

  “Ironic, that you label me power mad, Your Grace,” the Camerlengo replied. “I speak of your plan to succeed His Holiness, after he died of the disease which he contracted due to your careful preparation. I speak of your plot to kill the College of Cardinals. I speak of your web of collaborators whom you compensated with promises of power and the corruption of the flesh.”

  “Absurd!” Atherton-Clive answered, and then twisted in his seat to address the remains of the Curia. “Crivetto's cracking under the strain of his office. Where's any proof of any of this madness, I ask you!”

  “I have the proof here,” answered Cardinal Crivetto, tapping a clipped sheaf of notes. “Carefully transcribed from the questioning of Bishop Dutto which I personally attended this very morning. And I have Bishop Dutto to certify this testimony.”

  He rang a small bell. The door to the sacristy opened and the remaining Cistercian monk pushed a wheelchair ahead of him. Bishop Dutto's ashen face was beaded with sweat, despite the cool temperature. His hands were covered in white bandages, and his feet were splinted into place on the chair's footrests. His wide eyes took in the entire room, like a sacrifice wondering which hand held the knife.

  A widespread gasp spread across the gathered prelates, and the group swayed as though a strong wind had buffeted the room.

  “What happened to you?” Atherton-Clive's voice rang to the rafters, but Dutto was silent. “This man has been tortured! Who's responsible for this outrage!”

  I'd anticipated this question. We were back on script now. I ordered my Guard to attention and back to rest.

  “Attenzione!” And the four-meter ashwood-hafted polearms snapped to the vertical.

  “Riposo!” And the gleaming bills and spikes of the halberds were shoved a meter closer to the pews.

  Two dozen halberds suddenly thrust towards the congregation had the intended salubrious effect.

  The space was once again quiet, except for the rasping inhalations of the vice-regent.

  “I put Bishop Dutto to the question,” the Camerlengo replied. His voice filled the still room. “And Bishop Dutto himself will explain why.”

  He turned to the seated bishop.

  “Your Excellency?”

  Dutto stirred, and leaned to the opposite side of his wheelchair before he spoke.

  I stared at him, at the man whose fellow plotters had placed me in the impossible position of having to shoot the man that I had sworn my life to protect. My hands quivered at my sides as he stuttered through the details of entire repugnant affair, occasionally lapsing into long pauses only to be gently encouraged by the Camerlengo.

  The infection of the pope. The brokering of counterfeit vaccine to several of the cardinals who were terrified of H7D3 and prepared to accept the medicine after the death of His Holiness. The attempt to block the return of the true vaccine to the Vatican. Lastly, trading access to minors in exchange for the continued alliance with Atherton-Clive.

  The restless Curia had stilled as soon as Dutto mentioned infecting the pope with the virus. The tale of the mass murder of the College of Cardinals drew mutters and a few of the Curia edged away from the vice-regent. By the time that Crivetto prompted Dutto to speak up as he recounted his personal crime against the child there was an armspan of open space around Atherton-Clive and a few of his closest supporters.

  Finally, Dutto ran down the last bits of his testimony before sagging backwards like a doll whose sand was leaking out. Into the hushed atmosphere one of the prelates disbelievingly addressed a former friend.

  “Gregory, is this true?” an older archbishop said, extending his arm to touch Atherton-Clive's shoulder. The accused batted the shaking hand away.

  “Shut up, you damned fool,” Atherton-Clive said, squaring his shoulders and facing the Camerlengo. “Your pet dogs will enforce this farce, no doubt, Crivetto. What would you have of me?”

  “Confess, Your Grace,” replied Cardinal Crivetto. “Choose to repent. Declare a vow of silence, never again exercise any ordained ministry and accept a life at prayer within these walls for the rest of your life. If you insist upon the full trial under the Inquisition, you will certainly face a capital sentence.”

  “You leave me nothing!” Atherton-Clive sidled towards one edge of the open space, but kept well distant from the nearest Swiss Guard.

  “I offer mercy,” answered the Camerlengo.

  “I choose more,” said the archbishop, unrepentantly. He drew a small, flat automatic from under his vestments and shot the nearest guards four times. One was Aldemar, and he slumped, dropping his halberd with a clatter. The other lay face down so suddenly, I couldn't be sure who I'd lost. The vice-regent grabbed Archbishop Tangretti by the neck to serve as a human shield.

  At the first shot, several Guardsmen, including myself, lunged into the space between the Camerlengo and the shooter. Others advanced with their halberds as Atheron-Clive walked backwards out of the pew and towards the front of the church. For a sixty-year-old man, he moved well. Of course, he had the advantage of surprise and desperation. The other prelates were shocked into immobility and then panicked at the sudden violence. Some scurried towards us like a flushed covey of quail, blocking the Guardsmen who advanced, blades at the ready.

  “Halt, or I'll shoot this man!” Atherton-Clive threatened. He wedged his gun under Tangretti's jaw, pushing hard enough to make the muzzle disappear into the man's fleshy wattle. Where had the archbishop found a FN Five-Seven? It had been adopted by many security services precisely because it could defeat modern armor, let alone our antiques.

  “Another step, and I'll kill him and as many more as I can!”

  I only carried my familiar SIG Sauer and though I closed the gap rapidly, I was still several meters away. Even at this range, I could easily strike the hostage.

  “I'm leaving!” Atherton-Clive yelled. “Nobody follow or the good monsignor will join those dogs on the floor.”

  It was worth the risk. I had a nearly ideal sight picture, the front post in perfect focus, the target's head slightly bl
urred but distinct.

  I inhaled fully and then let half of my breath trickle out slowly.

  “Hold!” the Camerlengo ordered behind me. “Don't shoot!”

  I'd been shocked at Camerlengo's offer of leniency. His order struck me with like a blow.

  I vibrated with the need to kill Atherton-Clive. For a moment I almost added the extra fraction of pressure needed to trip the sear and complete the shot, but the moment passed. I forced myself to relax a trifle, and laid my forefinger along the trigger guard. Arrayed behind me were a dozen Guardsman, weapons held horizontally, hip high.

  I could hear Muller panting, restraining his own urge to close and kill.

  We all wanted blood. But we were still sworn.

  “You can't escape your sins, Gregory,” Cardinal Crivetto said, almost kindly.

  Atherton-Clive snarled. With his right hand he used the muzzle of his weapon to force the hostage's head upwards and with the other, opened the counter-weighted door before slipping through.

  “Boivin, guard these men with Second section!” I ordered, trusting my senior noncom to keep the other accused from fleeing. “Fourth, on me!”

  Even as I screamed my orders, I lunged after the vice-regent. So did several others and we piled up almost comically as too many men with polearms attempted to open the chapel doors. Once through, we stumbled again, squinting in the sudden brightness and tripping over the abandoned hostage.

  I heard the footsteps receding, and gave chase along the garden's emerald topiaries. There was no way that I would allow Atherton-Clive to escape. He fled northwards, toward the stairs that led to the museum and the underground car park we had used to get the vaccine.

  I emerged from the garden, and immediately saw my quarry surprisingly close. Atherton-Clive was no fool, and knew that he couldn't outrun us. Instead he shot several times. One round took me across my left thigh, burning like fire. Another glanced obliquely from my helmet, wrenching my head sideways so hard I felt my neck vertebrae grate together. My leg held, though blood sheeted down my leg, saturating my sock and boot.

  Ahead, I could hear Atherton-Clive calling for help. Giant, calloused hands pulled me up. Muller, watching out for me again.

  He grunted, eyeing me with concern, then ordered one of the accompanying Guards to tend to the other wounded man, down with two bullets that penetrated his cuirass.

  “You okay, sir?”

  “It's nothing,” I answered. I began to add more orders when I heard Atherton-Clive ahead, screaming for help. I couldn't see the museum, but it was close. I ordered the men forward.

  “Don't wait! After him!” It was imperative that vice-regent not escape. It was a matter of honor. It was a matter of justice.

  The unwounded Guardsmen sprinted boldly ahead, but I heard more shots, more than Atherton-Clive's pistol could hold.

  Muller looked the question at me. I had no idea either. Who could be shooting?

  We reached the foyer of the museum's upper floor. There we found a bloody tangle of bodies. Swiss Guards lay shot, their striped blue, gold and carmine uniforms sodden with more blood. At least two were dead, curraisses punctuated with perfect black circles, the haft's of their halberds still gripped in armored gauntlets.

  Others were wounded. But how?

  Two Gendarmerie were also present. Both were dead. Lecuyer lay with both hands on his weapon. The spike of his halberd was still buried in the chest of one dead man whose soft body armor had failed to stop the heat treated steel. The throat of the other was gashed all the way to his spine. He had a carbine, which I collected as Muller and a few others saw to our wounded.

  I don't know if the Gendarmerie were part of the archbishop's conspiracy or just reacted to the sight of the Swiss Guard chasing the archbishop with murderous intent. It didn't matter right now, except that the vice-regent had even more to answer for.

  “On me!” I said, wrenching the door to the stair open. Below I heard shouts, then a single shot.

  Atherton-Clive was still in reach.

  Two flights later, we burst into the small garage. Our vehicles were there, as well as a wounded Gendarmerie officer, clutching his stomach. An SUV was being used to ram open one set of exterior doors, and the attempt was failing. The vice-regent had been accustomed to being driven everywhere, and had no idea that the comparatively lightly build SUV was no match for the heavy doors that sealed the garage. While we watched, he did manage to spring one, opening a gap of perhaps a meter.

  Through which a naked infected promptly appeared.

  Atherton-Clive either panicked or was unimpressed, because he wrenched the transmission back to reverse, and as two more zombies came through the gap, he shifted back into forward, and tried one last time to ram the doubled doors. They shook, but stayed intact. The vice-regent did manage to push the radiator back into the fan, and I could hear it beating itself to death as green radiator coolant poured from beneath the truck.

  Atherton-Clive had also ran over two of the infected in the garage, which I appreciated, but he had further widened the gap. A few more infected trickled in, growling deep in their chests, their eyes on us, their prey.

  The carbine I borrowed was good enough to kill them both with only five or six shots.

  I ordered the men into a line, halberds at the low ready and stood behind them. The vice-regent bailed out of the car, and I shot a zombie only a step from grabbing him.

  “No tricks, Your Grace,” I warned him. “Come to us with your hands empty or I'll leave you as a meal for the infected. Your choice.”

  He looked at the zombies starting to clamber over the hood and then ran towards our line without a second thought. Muller grabbed him by the back of the neck and lifted him straight of ground. The prelate began to protest, but a light cuff left him quiet. Muller searched him roughly but thoroughly.

  Infected were pouring in now. The most damaged garage door was moving back and forth, as though it were being pounded by a hammer. The amount of screaming and growling grew so loud that I had to shout to ensure I was understood.

  I emptied the carbine into the press at the door, clogging it for a moment.

  “Back upstairs with him, Korporal!” I said, and then readied the line. “Shoulder to shoulder—aim for throats! Here they come.”

  I bought us a few more moments, running my pistol dry with carefully aimed shots, and without time for reload, I drew my rapier.

  The first few zombies reached our line singly, and economical blows dropped them to the ground. The next few approached at once, and the hallebardiers made quick work of them, working together, one holding the zombie off while the second made a deliberate aimed thrust.

  We backed slowly, keeping our dressing. The walls narrowed as we approached the stairs, and then one door failed entirely. It fell inwards, propped up at an angle over the car. Beyond, I could see a nearly unchecked tide of naked, infected humanity. The sound of their keening and growling was so loud that even yelled commands were swallowed by the cacophony. They pressed us, a mindless wall of hunger, and I lost another man right away, his halberd caught in the sternum of his target. He failed to let go and was swarmed. He fought on, alone. I couldn't afford to break ranks and retrieve him.

  I didn't want to think about what it meant to leave him.

  But I still think about it, every day.

  We backed to the stairs and compressed our line further, only two men wide. I was in the second rank, next to Taliaferro, and we were shoved back by main force, crushing us back up the stairs. The distance was so short, that we to choke up the grip on our weapons, and take care not to trip the men behind us, but the polearms and our armor were going to make this work.

  We'd almost reached the top.

  All we had to do was get to the landing, back through it cautiously and block the metal door. And then without warning, Taliaferro began screaming. Confused, I looked for his attacker.

  There wasn't any.

  “Get it off, get it off me, get it off, get it off!
” He dropped his halberd, tripping up the man in front him. His morion flew away and he began to try to unbuckle the clamshell armor that covered his chest and back.

  He never stopped screaming.

  “Taliaferro!” I shook him, looking at this eyes closely. “Taliaferro! STOP!”

  His skin was hot to the touch. As I drew back in shock, he howled and abandoned his efforts to get out of his armor. His eyes focused on me and when I met them, they were empty of anything by hunger and hate. There was no room to stab him with the sword. Without hesitation, I rammed my rapier blade sideways, taking him above the armor, opening up the great vein on the side of his neck.

  He screamed and grabbed for my face while blood spurted into my eyes, blinding me for a moment. The men in front tripped and I heard one scream.

  I think it was only one.

  Unable to see, I began punching with the guard of my rapier, striking yielding softness. Once my guard struck metal. I backed up a short distance more before I was plucked from my feet and thrown backwards, skidding on my backside.

  I dropped the rapier to try to clear my sticky eyes of blood. Through a red-tinted film, I saw one more Guardsman come through the foyer stairway door. Then he and Muller slammed the door shut. Muller picked up a discarded halberd and rammed the spike under the door, wedging it tightly closed.

  I stood, collecting my thought. There were four of us left. One guarded Atherton-Clive, and I turned to congratulate Korporal Muller. After today, he would be getting a promotion as well as my personal thanks.

  We never would have made it without him.

  He was staring at his hand.

  It was shaking.

  “I'm not doing that, Herr Hauptman,” he said, looking fixedly at the offending limb. “I'm NOT doing that!”

  His voice began to rise.

  “Shit, shit, shit – sir, help me! Help me, please!”

  I tried to understand. Taliaferro in the stairway. Muller above? Both had been vaccinated, receiving their booster with the rest of . . . the rest of Fourth section. Using the last of the booster that had been sold to us by the reluctant Directore di Hospitale. It hadn't been quite good enough, and he'd known it.