by R Coots
The animal broke out of the hole, clawing stones and clods of dirt out of the way. Another snap of teeth took a chunk out of Syrus’s boot sole as he jerked his foot away. Its claws caught the inside of his leg and raked down the metal of his armor with an earsplitting screech before they snagged on his boot top.
That did it.
He’d clipped his knife back to his belt without bothering to collapse the blade. Now he grabbed for it. Half a heartbeat to dodge the next attack. Skip the next. A th-thump of panic as the animal slipped back on the loose dirt in the tunnel and started to take his leg with it. He let the motion pull him forward and met the thing as it caught its footing and made another try for open air.
His blade skidded off the bone of the creature’s forehead. He adjusted, dodged the teeth, and tried again. The knife hit home, driving in through the eye with a squelch. But it wasn’t enough. The thing kept coming.
What did they do, armor plate its brain?
At least it was pissed off enough that it let go of his boot. The animal slid back, gathering itself for another attack. Syrus scrambled backwards, yanking his rifle around from where it hung loose on the strap over his shoulder.
If the discharge had gone off two inches to the left, he would have served cooked warlord on a platter. Instead, rocks and dirt and chunks of half-burned meat rained. The back half of the body thudded back into the tunnel. A couple of the techs screamed.
No time to breathe. He could feel the ground under him rumbling. He’d been too slow moving the bodies. The animals had made themselves new exits. They’d be coming up all over if he didn’t get this taken care of. Fuck. He hated bajbarog.
In the second it took him to get back on his feet, the earth buckled in three more places. No time. Just had to hope to hell this would work.
He popped a sewer seeker off his belt. “Scatter,” he roared into the comms. “Seeker away.”
Then he dropped it on the body of the dead bajbar.
He had barely enough time to grab for the abandoned shield stake and roll towards the cluster of techs. Jamming the stake in the ground, he made himself as small as he could under the quarter shield the thing put up.
The world turned to noise and flying dirt mixed with charred chunks of jenmal. Something hit him in the shoulder, but he didn’t look to see what it was. Any second now.
A second explosion, not three feet from the first. At least one of the women had huddled up behind him, hoping his larger frame would shield her from the mayhem.
Dumb idea on her part. They needed to move.
Twisting around, he grabbed her by the arm and all but threw her at the spot where the women had first tried to shelter. It was nothing but bloody mud now. But it was safer than where they were.
“Fall in,” Syrus shouted, more because he couldn’t hear himself over the ringing in his ears than because they needed to be told. Fucking helmets and their fucked up dampening systems. If they weren’t saving his hearing, they were ruining it. He’d leave the damn thing off if it didn’t mean the laws of the universe would cave his skull in for him.
Syrus figured his time was up. He yanked the stake again, nearly collided with Quinn as the second made a dive for the pile of soldiers, and jammed the stake back in the ground. It hummed to life, connecting with the other three stakes to form the full bubble. A soldier hit the barrier, stuck outside.
And then the man was gone in a wash of dirt and fire. Syrus sank past his ankles in the bloody soil as the shock of the explosion rippled through the ground.
Then another.
And another.
He crouched, watching the balls of fire climb the mountainside as seeker after seeker blew, scattered nanites to the wind, found another target with matching DNA, blew again, and repeated the process. On and on and on, all the way up the mountain.
> Chapter Four
Syrus
- - - wipe the drives soon. Don’t even know
why I’m entering this. We’ve lost - - -
Just have to keep moving. Draw them off.
Not going to make - - - Miss her already
- - - [muffled crying]
-recovered log files, Skatasi op Essi
Syrus decided he was doubly glad for the sai shielding in his armor. It was always helpful during battle, but in the aftermath of a disaster like that, he figured whoever invented the stuff should be up for veneration. Without it, he’d be well and truly cooked. Even without his sai, he knew he was surrounded by people who would happily knife him in the back if they thought they could get away with it. Well, if he hadn’t done what he had, they’d all be dead right now.
Hell, even after nearly dying to hordes of bajbar, he was having a better time than he’d had in at least a month. It was one thing to be commanding during a Campaign, keeping track of an entire army. Another entirely to be out in the middle of nowhere, pretty much on his own.
Snorting, he decided it was stupid to think he’d missed this. At the end of the day, he’d be back in space and on his way to another planet. Hopefully one attached to the Navlad Empire. And it would be back to business as usual.
Maybe the next planet would even be a challenge. Overturning backwaters was getting to be so boring.
Someone behind him stumbled and cursed. He ignored it, saving his attention so he could avoid the same issue. The mountain, not especially steep, was giving them problems in the form of churned earth and loose stones. The bajbarog had been here long enough to build themselves a fucking warren. The sewer seeker had torn the whole mountainside to hell and gone.
In a city, where the things were meant to be used, they didn’t usually do this. The explosions were generally contained by whatever paving and construction had been laid over the waste and subterranean transport systems. In dirt, though? Well. The bomblets were small, and the nanites only triggered an explosion on contact with the targeted DNA, but they were strong enough to damage anything in range of the blast. All the science in the universe hadn’t worked out a way to prevent internal injuries. Or armor from cooking a man inside it before he could get out.
Which was why he had four bloody ident tags and a dented collar wrapped around his wrist, and the rest of his people were plotting his death where they thought he couldn’t see. Dying on Campaign they understood. Dying in a Challenge was expected. Dying because their so-called warlord had decided to talk a walk dirtside was much harder to stomach.
Well, he’d either find something to give them a reason for all this, or he’d be getting back on the drop ship by himself. Maybe with Quinn. Maybe not. Hell, for all he knew the man was in on the—
He stopped. Looked. Turned around, ignoring the sullen glares and set lines of his soldiers’ faces. Looked forward again. Checked left and right, just to be sure.
The difference couldn’t have been more obvious.
Syrus and his people stood on churned-up dirt and fallen vegetation. Five feet away was a meadow, disturbed only by a few clods of earth and some branches that must have achieved flight before giving in to gravity. A bunker rose out of the grass on the other side, a single story of metal overgrown by the natural world. Deadfall trees leaned against the pitted metal of the building. Even through the streamers of hanging moss and masses of ferns around its base, he could see it clearly enough to tell what it was. The squared off lines and oblique angles the Navlad Empire built with were like a slap in the face after the sinuous curves and hooked edges of the Fleet.
“You two. Five and seven o’clock.” Where that particular system came from, he didn’t know. But it seemed to be universal. The two soldiers he’d pointed at moved out, testing the ground every other step or so. He didn’t blame them. They’d already had to dig one of the techs out of a collapsed tunnel and nearly lost one of the men to the covered over mouth of a den.
“Quinn, see if the rest of you can get the roof cleared off. Without caving it in. If we can, we’ll evac from here. Keep an eye out. There were those dens up mountain. Doubt we got them all.�
�
The second saluted, gathered up the troops, and headed off at an angle. Syrus thought about telling him to stay in the clearing, but figured the man was smart enough to do that on his own. Instead, he snagged the shoulder of a woman with the markings of a computer-tech on her collar and pointed at the door. “Can you get it open?”
Her expression would have etched metal. Syrus thought he might actually be getting blisters on his hand through the armor. Growling, he shook her, just a little. “Then don’t sit here wasting time. Get us in.”
Spine straight, she limped off as fast as she could. Resisting the urge to rub at his hand, Syrus followed her. The last two techs trailed him like a pair of ducklings.
They ground to a halt in front of the doors. A thicket of berry bushes, straight out of some of the sappiest children’s story he could think of, stood between them and their goal. The computer-tech looked at the bushes, looked at Syrus, and raised an eyebrow.
He glared back. “You’re a woman of the Fleet. Fucking deal with it already. You two, still got your readers?” When they nodded, he pointed at the clearing. “Get to it. Whatever you can find. And then tell me if Seeding will take.” If the air filters in his helmet hadn’t kicked in by now, there was no reason why it shouldn’t, but not every atmosphere answered to Seed in the same way. Even if the Fleet never settled anyone here, it was smarter to have it under Fleet control than to leave it open for the Empire.
While the women got to work, Syrus crouched down and started poking through the bushes. None of the leaves on the trees looked like they’d started turning yet, but the air smelled more of high summer than spring. If his guess was right, and the animals were blocked from the clearing, there should be something the birds hadn’t gotten to.
He was rewarded with a handful of small black berries that squirted purple juice when he misjudged his armor’s grip and tried to pull too many at once. The reader on his slate spat out an EDIBLE result, so he ate them, took a swallow of water from his hip flask, and got to work.
Fifteen minutes later he’d filled two belt pouches and was working on a third when the computer-tech came wading through the bushes. “The door will open, milord,” she said sharply. Syrus didn’t need to be a Feel to know what she thought of him picking berries while the rest of them worked. He stood up, shedding plant matter left and right, and followed her through the bushes to the lock panel set into the side of the door.
Her slate was hooked in, green lights all around. Toggling the comm, he warned Quinn and his men in case anything on the roof decided to start moving, then nodded at the tech. She punched in the last of the code and slapped the button on the panel itself.
For a second, he thought it hadn’t worked. Then something deep in the bunker groaned, something else clunked, and the hum of machinery filled the air. Another minute, and the doors moved apart. They squealed and shrieked, the dirt-crusted tracks showering dust like fine rain. Stale air blew out the gap in the door. The stench made it through the filters of his helmet and Syrus loosened his jaw so he could breathe through his mouth. Next to him, the tech wrinkled her nose.
With one last groan of resistance, the doors stuck. Halfway open, at least. Wide enough for them to get in. Safety lights flickered to life inside, probably activated by whatever the tech had done to get the doors open. Syrus leaned through them. All he saw was hallway.
Dropping one of the full pouches of berries on the tech’s slate, he clapped her on the shoulder. “Good. Now see if you can’t get some more systems online.”
>><<
He filled the third pouch with berries, retrieved the empty from an embarrassed computer-tech, and had that one almost full before she came stomping back over and told him she’d done everything she could from here. Her mouth was rimmed in purple, but he decided not to let her know. He needed something to laugh about. Whistling for the other two techs, Syrus let Quinn know he was going inside, unslung his rifle, and nodded at the women. “K then. Let’s go.”
They nodded. Clearing an enemy building with techs was always the same. Soldiers first, then the women. Their little hand weapons were a last resort, nothing more. Seven charges for attackers, the eighth for themselves, to avoid capture.
He doubted they’d need their weapons, but he didn’t feel like taking any more chances today. Single file, they eased through the doors, one of the men from outside kneeling in the open door to cover the guard still at the perimeter.
The tech had managed to activate the normal overhead lights, but not all of them had survived. Patches of shadow lit by dim red safety lights turned the corridor into a patchwork of light and dark. Syrus checked them all before moving forward.
Nothing.
Nothing but old equipment in rooms off the hall. Nothing but stale air and dust in the whole place. Two levels accessible by stairs. A common room. A small kitchen. Three rooms with metal frames for beds set one atop the other, nearly to the ceiling. No mattresses. Not even the remains of mattresses. No signs of food or supplies.
Empty.
They found the control room on the second level, right up against the back wall of the bunker. He waved the computer-tech forward. She wilted visibly, hair falling out of the knot at her neck and every inch of skin smudged with dirt. Her limp was getting worse by the step. “Anything else,” he asked, “to account for the power signature?”
She was too tired to even get angry with him. She just unclipped her slate from her belt, went over to the console controls, and started hunting for a place to plug in. Soft green light lit the room as she found the correct buttons and got to work.
Less than a minute later, he had his answer. “Here,” she said, pointing at the diagram hovering in the air in front of her. “The end of the hall has a door. Looks like they put an accessory generator in the mountain itself and routed most of the power away from the rest of the complex. Whatever’s here, it’s buried behind the bunker.”
“K then, get it open.”
“I tried. It’s unlocked. We should have heard machinery moving. The door opening. Something. Whoever set this up, they disconnected it manually.”
He raised an eyebrow at her. For a moment her eyes flared, but she unplugged her slate and limped for the door. He didn’t try to hurry her. She’d probably punch him. Punishing her would make the whole process take even longer. So he walked behind her and to one side, trying not to make it obvious that he could catch her if her legs gave out. She made it to the door, very clearly not leaning against the wall as she pried open the service hatch and started fiddling with wires.
Syrus watched over her shoulder, but the space was cramped and her hands filled most of his field of view. From what he could tell, at least half the wires were decoys, stuffed in and attached to more decoys. Probably running through this whole wall. Finally, the woman grunted, reached far inside the opening, and pulled out a small handful. The cut edges shone bright in the light of overheads. Syrus stomped on the urge to take them from her and start testing them himself. She knew what she was doing.
On the third wire, something inside the wall gave a grinding noise, then a clunk. The metal panel of the hidden door slid an inch to the side. And stuck. Syrus looked down at the tech, who shrugged. “Old machinery, my lord?”
“Right then.” He nudged her out of the way and stepped up to take a look. Nothing. No light coming through, no noise. Nothing. Grumbling, he wedged his fingers into the gap, wincing as the armor of his gauntlets screeched against the metal of the panel. Then he braced his feet and pulled. And pulled. And pulled some more. With another grinding noise and the squeal of unoiled bearings, the hidden door moved. He kept pulling, afraid that if he stopped to get a better grip, the thing would seize up on him again.
The tech leaned against the jam, easing further and further into the opening as he created space. He paused when she muttered a quiet “By the root,” but kept hauling on the door. She might fit through. He didn’t have a chance, not in armor. Finally, Syrus figured he’d gotten th
e door as open as it was going to go. He straightened, stepping up behind the tech to see what she was looking at, and felt his jaw sag in horror.
> Chapter Five
Syrus
The benefits of a strong sai making a bond must be weighed against the possible damages. If the body is left in cold storage for too long, the systems may not be recovered.
-“Advantages and Disadvantages of Cryo in the Management of Unbonded Sai” Professor Rusithe, New Hopks College of Medicine
“Fuck,” Syrus whispered. “The fucking hell?”
There wasn’t much else he could say. It was too much to take in at once. What madman would have even thought this up? Worse, who would actually put it together?
Generator, hell. There was enough machinery stuffed into this room to fill a whole other bunker. Bundles of cords, tubes, and who knew what else covered the floor and climbed the walls. Banks of what looked like processing units were stacked five high in the back of the room, blips of light blinking here and there. An old-fashioned spin lock dogged shut a hatch set in the back wall. The muted thrum of something big and electrical meant that the generator powering this nightmare was probably in the room beyond.
And smack in the middle of the room were two huge boxes. Their lids were made of synthglass. It looked like at least half the cords and tubes in the room ran into the bases. More blinking lights, ranging from green to orange, lined the edges.
“What is it?” The computer-tech leaned around him to peer at the room. She hadn’t been able to turn on more than a quarter of the overhead lights. The rest of the illumination came from more safety lights set into the walls near the floor.
He’d walked into a nightmare.
Syrus shifted to the side and gestured at the room. “That,” he told the woman, “is what it looks like when a fucking nutcase sticks two people in cryo in a facility that was never meant to house them.”