by Ehsan Ahmad
Now they were gone, too, and Sonus spent hours running over the events of recent weeks: examining each decision, every possible outcome. When the guilt struck him, it was Karas’s voice he heard, reassuring him this was not his fault. He again considered joining them in the oblivion of death. If—like Qari, like his parents—Sonus believed he would find his way to a better place, he might have done it. But awful though it was, this was the only life he had; the only life Palanians had, the only life the inhabitants of Corvos had. Unless something could be done to change it.
But that was proving even harder than he’d imagined. There had been only a few jobs on the surface recently, reducing his opportunities to be around the Vitaari and pick up news. He didn’t even know when the next freighter was due, though he was desperate to make contact with Nomora. Sonus needed something to focus on, something concrete. But until he could speak to the Lovirr again, he was on his own.
With a last glance back down the tunnel, he stifled a cough, then set off at a run. A guard had come down to order their midday break, and as soon as he’d left, so had Sonus. He was still with the same work crew and had needed something very persuasive to buy their silence. Each man had been given a pack of painkillers from the supply provided by Kadessis some time ago. Designed for large Vitaari bodies, the tablets were very effective and highly prized by any worker who could get their hands on them, either for an emergency or for barter. The guard usually returned promptly at the end of the break, so Sonus had twenty-five minutes at the most. The journey would take him eight.
Only at the far end of the tunnel would he be safe to move up an access ladder to the level above. There were more guards there and a larger work crew, but—like his—they were currently drilling close to the elevator. Sonus had to hope he could find what he needed and get back before the guard. He had enough tablets to buy one more trip but no more than that. He would need to be quick, and he would need to be lucky. He reckoned he was due some luck.
Stopping at the base of the ladder, he looked both ways—no sign of any guards or anyone else. He climbed up into darkness (only the tunnels were lit, and those only weakly). Amongst the pieces of equipment strapped to his chest beneath his overalls was a flashlight, but using it here would produce a shaft of light that might give him away. Grimacing at the musty air, Sonus kept up a steady pace and soon emerged into the tunnel above.
To his relief, the work crew was several hundred yards away: dark figures moving around between powerful lights. Even the guards had no reason to come in this direction. Sonus turned and ran along the middle of the tunnel, staying well away from the yellow glow of any active lamps. It took another minute to reach his destination.
The pit was an accident. Several years previous, one of the heavy drills had been boring downward when it struck an impenetrable seam of rock. Even when some special equipment had been flown in from another mine, the Vitaari had been unable to break through. They had eventually decided to simply bore elsewhere, leaving a vertical shaft that had become a useful receptacle for waste. Over the years, the pit had filled up with all types of trash, including extraneous, damaged, and outdated machinery.
Standing at the edge, Sonus looked down at the murky morass of refuse some ten feet below. Then he glanced up at the dim light of the opening far, far above. He could not help thinking of Karas and Qari, though that shaft was in another part of the mine.
Pushing such thoughts aside, Sonus pulled out a rope from inside his overalls and attached one end to the nearest lamp, the workings of which had been removed. He then swiftly knotted the other end around his waist and took out his flashlight. Only when he had slid down the sloping edge of the pit did he turn on the light, and only on low power.
Over the years, he had seen numerous items that might suit his current needs, but one in particular would be perfect. The Vitaari machinery depended on several different types of power cell, and Sonus had come across most of them. Some were tiny enough to hold between two fingers; others—like those in the heavy drills—were as big as a man. One of his jobs had been to replace the cells in the cargo conveyor, and he’d learned the hard way that there was a certain method to removing them. Though he’d done his best to follow the Vitaari instructions, he had missed a vital step and succeeded in blowing a hole in the housing.
The cell that had caused the damage was no larger than a coin, and a later conversation with one of the engineers revealed that these particular cells were being phased out. Despite their remarkable durability, they were unstable when close to the end of their life. Several months later, the Vitaari engineers were instructed to dump all of the remaining cells (Sonus recalled some mutterings about cheap foreign technology). Left in the housings for safety’s sake, hundreds of the cells had been thrown away. Most had been dumped the previous year—and would probably be deeply buried by now—but Sonus remembered seeing three or four more of the housing boards quite recently. They were in there somewhere.
With one hand on the rope, he stopped at the edge and moved the flashlight across the refuse. He tried to recall everything he could about the housings—they were narrow and rectangular, about a foot long, colored silver and white. Each contained twenty cells.
A minute passed. Two. Three. Sonus moved the light across the waste in methodical fashion, but every glimpse of something promising turned to disappointment. The pit was perhaps forty feet across, and he could see little of the far side because of a huge metal panel that had landed in the middle. Sonus checked his communicator, which also included a clock. He had twelve minutes before the guard returned.
He moved to the far left of the tunnel to change his view. Wedged against the wall on this side were the remains of a discarded loading machine. It was only three feet below the lip, and Sonus reckoned that by climbing across it, he could get an angle over the panel and see more of the pit’s far side.
He lowered himself over the lip, both hands on the rope, and soon had both heels on the loader. After a delicate turning maneuver, he was facing the right way. The machine was a little unstable but retained its position even when supporting his full weight. Having made sure the rope was running free behind him, Sonus put his arms out for balance and walked forward. Once at the end, he raised the flashlight high, aiming it over the panel. His view was still limited, but he continued his search.
Once he had illuminated all he could see, he checked the communicator again. Ten minutes. He had to leave. But he couldn’t resist turning the light on the front of the pit now that he had a different view. Within only three sweeps of the flashlight he saw it. The housing was upside down and lying behind a barrel—he would never have spotted it from above. It was ten feet away and a similar distance from the side. He would have to climb across the pit. There was no time now. But he could come back.
Sonus retraced his steps across the machine, keeping the rope taut to steady him. Only when he reached the other end did he realize how much harder it would be to get back, especially with such unsteady footing. He stretched out his arms, gripped the rope as high as he could, then pressed his left boot against the rock and pulled himself up. He had almost levered both elbows over the lip when his foot slipped.
He came down hard on the edge and cracked his chin but somehow retained his grip. Both feet were dangling, but he eventually got his left boot over the edge and hauled himself up. He rolled onto his back and was struck immediately by a coughing fit. Used to concealing his symptoms, he suppressed the noise but could feel the black bile rising up his throat.
Once on his feet, he hurried over to the lamp and untied the rope. He looped it, stuffed it inside his overalls and ran back to the ladder. Still coughing when he reached the bottom, he had to take a swig of water from his flask. As he ran, he checked the communicator. He had seven minutes.
Vellerik had been watching the Kinassans for over two hours. His half of the squad was behind the larger tower to the left, Triantaa was on the right side of the pass with the rest. The
men had packed up the shelters and were now waiting in the shade.
“How close now, Captain?” asked one of them.
“Three hundred meters. Looks like they’re stopping.”
Wary of sunlight sparking off his visor, Vellerik was using only his eyes and was lying at the corner of the tower. Earlier, he had risked a quick look with the visor at a greater range and seen what he supposed might have once been called a warband. There were around a hundred of them: all male, all of fighting age, wearing pale flowing robes that covered their heads and bodies. Most seemed to be armed with spears, but a few had bows and arrows. Toward the back of the group were some of the creatures Kerreslaa had mentioned. They were tall, lolloping, long-haired creatures, each one laden down with bags.
But—even though the Kinassans were now stationary—what had struck Vellerik most was the purposeful look about them; that and the red triangle daubed across the front of every warrior’s chest. Triantaa had been trying to research the symbol using the files Kerreslaa had passed on but was having some sort of problem with his display.
Zarrinda—one of the youngest, keenest members of the troop—was sitting close to Vellerik. “I’m glad they didn’t come through last night, Captain.”
The hours of darkness had passed without incident, and there had been no sign of movement until the morning. Triantaa had suggested the Kinassans might wish to avoid moving in the hottest hours of the afternoon.
“What if they turn around?” added Zarrinda. “Will we go after them?”
“That’s up to the captain,” grunted Dekkiran, who seemed anxious to regain some ground after his poor performance the previous day.
Triantaa’s voice came over coms. “Got it, sir. The red triangle signifies they are preparing for battle. Oh… it appears they use their own blood. They really are savages.”
Vellerik recalled what he’d read about previous Kinassan attacks. They had struck in waves and fought with almost suicidal bravery against whatever they faced. The Legion had eventually employed artillery, decimating thousands of the locals, who had foolishly continued to fight on open ground where the Vitaari could maximize the effects of their firepower.
Vellerik checked they still hadn’t moved, then withdrew into cover and considered his options. He could mine the pass now as a precaution, but that would alert the Kinassans to their presence. He thought it unlikely they could have heard or seen the troop arrive, and he had two men stationed farther back, looking for any scouts who might appear on the formations.
If the Kinassans did know he and his men were guarding the end of the pass, surely they would either fight or withdraw? Vellerik glanced at his observers. Neither had reported anything.
He heard a shriek, then watched with bemusement as his half of the troop scrambled to their feet and scattered. Vellerik grabbed his gun and looked around. Lying on the ground where the men had been was an object that looked very much like a head. Having established that it was no danger to him, he got to his feet and backed away from the tower, gun aimed upward.
“Anyone see anything?” he asked. None of the soldiers replied.
“Sir?” Triantaa sounded worried.
“Await orders.” Vellerik saw Triantaa and his men hadn’t moved from the second tower.
“They couldn’t climb up there, could they?” said Dekkiran, as he and the others followed their commander.
When he was twenty paces back, Vellerik stopped and looked again at the head.
“I think it’s one of ours,” said Perttiel.
The gray skin was shriveled but intact. The size and features suggested the trooper was right.
“They must have kept it all these years,” said Zarrinda. “Since they last fought us.”
“It’s a warning,” said Vellerik.
“Sir?”
“They just dropped an old head on top of us,” he told Triantaa. “At a guess, I’d say they’d like us to le—”
“There!” blurted Perttiel. “Captain, look.”
The Kinassan was perched in a well protected position upon the tower, about fifty meters up.
“Got him, sir,” murmured Dekkiran, gun aimed high, stock against his shoulder.
“Hold fire,” snapped Vellerik.
When he realized he was not under immediate threat, the Kinassan straightened up and shouted something. He then point-ed at the desert.
“They definitely want us to leave,” observed Perttiel.
“How did he get up there?” asked another of the troopers.
“Quiet,” ordered Vellerik. “Both squads, retreat to thirty meters.”
Still facing forward, the soldiers on both sides of the pass withdrew.
Dark face visible under his hood, the Kinassan pointed at the Vitaari, then at the desert once more.
“We got the message, friend,” said Vellerik.
“Sir, they’ve gone,” said Triantaa over coms.
Vellerik looked across at him as he and the rest of the troop stopped. “What?”
“The others, sir. They’ve gone. Can’t see any of them in the pass.” Vellerik moved to his right and saw immediately Triantaa was right; the hundred warriors had disappeared. All he could see was a few of the pack animals.
“Sir, I’m now getting more readings close by. I think there might be more of them on the towers.”
Vellerik ignored the lone warrior and ran his eyes across both towers, but he could see no sign of any others.
“Where’d he go?” said Pertiell. Now the Kinassan messenger had disappeared, too.
“Maybe they’re retreating,” suggested Zarrinda.
“There’s one,” shouted a soldier with Triantaa’s group.
Just as he pointed up at the tower, Vellerik heard something hit the ground. He turned and saw a two-meter wooden spear embedded in the dusty earth.
“And there,” yelled Dekkiran.
Suddenly, shapes appeared on both towers and more spears were hurtling down toward the Vitaari. Vellerik knew the helmets and body armor would protect them, but a lucky shot around the face or neck could do some damage. He could not understand how so many of the Kinassans could have climbed the tower so quickly.
A spear clattered off Pertiell’s helmet. The trooper staggered backwards.
“Open fire!”
Vellerik clicked the activator on his gun but left his finger over the trigger, instead watching as the rest of the troop poured shells up at the formation. As the Assaulters spat fire, dust and chunks of rock flew up, and the first of the Kinassans fell—a whirl of robes and dark skin that thumped into the ground close to the head.
Some of them had the sense to duck back into cover, but others continued to fling their spears. One stood up wielding a bow but hadn’t even drawn the string when a line of shells ripped across his position, tearing into his torso and splashing blood across his robes. The warrior slumped back against the rock and dropped his bow.
Vellerik glanced over at Triantaa’s squad. The lieutenant and every man were aiming at the tower, picking the natives off from an ever-decreasing supply of targets. One trooper was hit dead center by a spear, which bounced off his plate armor, and he continued firing.
Because he was the only one not looking up, Vellerik was the first to see the Kinassans break cover at the base of the tower close to where he had been lying. There were about ten of them, all armed with spears, all charging across the ground toward the Vitaari.
Vellerik took two steps to the right to give himself a clear field of fire. Selecting the anti-infantry missile, he fired from the hip, aiming at the ground ahead of the quickest warrior. The last he saw of him was his open mouth and wild eyes. The blast sent earth in every direction, and Vellerik felt the ground shake beneath him.
He turned to the right and saw another group of warriors running at Triantaa’s men. Several got spears away before the troopers turned their guns on them and cut them down. At such close range, the Assaulters were bruta
lly effective, blowing the Kinassans backwards and halting their charge in seconds.
As the dust cleared, Vellerik realized his men had stopped firing.
There wasn’t much left of the Kinassans, just a blackened crater in the ground and some bloodied body parts and tunics. He glanced up at the tower and spied a single warrior scrabbling across an exposed rock face. Before Vellerik could raise his gun again, Dekkiran fired. The trooper gave a triumphant roar as the shells blasted the Kinassan away. When he was done, he turned to his superior, grinning inanely.
“Nice work with the missile, Captain.”
“Could someone help me here?” The unfortunate Perttiel drop-ped his gun. A long wooden arrow was sticking out of his shoulder.
“Think it must have gone between two plates.”
“You’ll be fine.” Vellerik again scanned both towers and the ground, but there were no more Kinassans moving. He pointed at four of his men who were standing close together. “Cover. Keep your eyes forward. Zarrinda, break out the kit and check the manual for procedure.”
“Sir, look.” Despite his injury, Perttiel was pointing across at the other troop, where the men had gathered around a figure lying on the ground.
Vellerik shouldered his gun and ran across to them.
“Let me through.” When the men separated, he saw the rank insignia on the arm of the fallen man. Triantaa. He was on his front, head twisted as he looked up at his commanding officer. His eyes were already turning yellow, a sign of internal trauma Vellerik had seen countless times.
“Sorry, sir.”
Vellerik knelt beside him. They had already removed the spear. The wound was on the side of Triantaa’s neck. It had torn out a large chunk of flesh, and black blood was seeping onto the ground. One of the men already had his kit open and now placed the sealer drone next to the wound. Once it had inspected the injury, it would staunch the bleeding and prevent infection until Triantaa could be operated on. The lieutenant’s eyes flickered, then closed.