by Richard Fox
“See, the mermies are going on a snatch-and-grab. The indigs won’t know what hit them before they pop smoke and hit orbit again. These indigs are barely capable of space flight—you saw that tin can of theirs.”
“What’s your point?”
“They’re going to poke the bear. Kick the beehive. Piss the hell out of the indigs while we’re dropping drones over the big ocean. What if they get their act together fast enough to hit us?”
“Please,” Yenin said, rolling her eyes. “We’re going to be skirting the troposphere. They don’t even have an Internet. You think they can target-track across the planet?”
“Who knows! This job gets worse all the time. You hear that the original survey team went native? That’s why we have to drop these damn things. Big bosses want data to feed the machines so they can figure out the best place to build condos or something. I just hope the director remembers these things are supposed to be disposable. You want to make a recovery drop? Down there with all the viruses and stuff?”
“I just want to go back to happy and wide-eyed colonists on board. Get them situated and then get the hell out of town before they realize the company skimped on some of the QC checks.” She bumped a knee against a sabot.
“Ugh…what do you think they’re doing to that one indig we delivered to the docs? Not the one they had to wash out with a hose.”
“You really want to know?” she asked.
“No…not really.”
Chapter 23
General Fastal initialed a box on a clipboard and looked up. He and a pair of technicians were in a concrete vault, lit by overhead bulbs secured to the ceiling by tight wire frames. Pill-shaped bombs filled the space, each so big, they barely fit in the back of a cargo truck in their wheeled cradles locked to the floor.
“Kaff-Shigg-9-9-Zola, accounted for.” Fastal read off the serial number etched into the bomb closest to him. He raised a small box dangling from the front pocket of his fatigues and glanced at a black bar on it, the very bottom turning red. “What’s this mean? We’ve been in here too long?”
“It’s when the reader goes green that we’re in the danger zone for radiation exposure,” said one of the techs, a worker caste. “It turns white, then you have to take an iodine-pill regimen. Three weeks of mandatory non-exposure after that. We’re good for another six hours in the vaults, sir.”
“I’m…surprised by just how many warheads there are,” Fastal said.
“Heretics have their own, General,” a warrior caste said. “So we have enough to wipe them off the planet. In case the gods demand such a thing.”
“Were you at the scouring?” Fastal twirled the pen between his fingers then rapped the clipboard with it.
“No, sir, I was at a convalescent hospital.” He reached down and knocked on the bottom of his right leg, which sounded hollow and plastic. “Got hit just before it all ended. Just my luck.”
“Eight nukes were enough to bring the Slavers to their knees,” Fastal said. “I was there, Blooded Tichon. Seeing that was…was not an act the gods would welcome. And now I’ve inventoried over two hundred warheads. And there are two more bunkers.”
“You believe in the curse, sir?” the tech asked. “Because all my laborer brothers here believe in it.”
“Enough of that,” Tichon said.
“Every military officer involved in the decision to destroy the Slaver islands died within six months of their surrender,” Fastal said, “including King Iptari, gods receive his soul.” He kissed the back of his knuckles and gave his chest a pat. The rest mimicked him.
“Coincidence. Accidents and ill health,” Tichon said. “It’s silly superstition to believe there was some kind of ‘divine vengeance.’ The use of nukes was approved by the Speakers after a communion. The gods wouldn’t permit with one hand and punish with the other.”
“Maybe the gods approved their use against what little remained of the Slavers’ military, not the cities full of civilians,” Fastal said. “Not that second-guessing—”
“General!” A soldier burst through the open vault door, panting and sweating. “General, all our radar has gone offline and the radios are…none of them are…working.”
“Full alert.” Fastal grabbed the nearest tech and pushed him toward the door. “Send a runner to the garrison and send the quick reaction force here. Now.”
The winded soldier went to one knee and got out of the tech’s way as he ran off.
“Likely just a glitch,” Tichon said. “Sunspot activity. Happens from time to time.”
“And if this isn’t another ‘coincidence’?” Fastal asked. “I was going to order a surprise alert as soon as these inventories were over anyway.” He glanced at a watch. “It’s late enough as it is.”
“Seal up this vault,” Tichon called out as he followed Fastal out, a slight limp to his step.
Fastal stepped over the threshold and into a hallway where the walls and floors were poured concrete, but the ceiling was bare rock, jagged from the explosions that hollowed out the mountain. A half-dozen soldiers were waiting for them, each armed with carbines. They wore flak vests and steel helmets, the brass rank rings on their upper arms blackened. The two higher-ranked men were Blooded—combat veterans, judging by the top, dark-red ring. The rest were too young to have fought in the Just War.
“Nothing.” The top soldier tapped a speaker mounted in the hallway. “Not a word from the control center. Must be why they sent a runner.”
The rest of Fastal’s bodyguards looked nervous.
“I’ve been out of the loop for a while,” the general said. “This something the heretics are capable of? Shutting down all our comms?”
“No, sir,” Tichon said. “But sometimes systems fail. This is a secret base and the worker caste tend to quit soon after they learn the ‘cursed weapons’ are being stored here. I’ve had to train up our own Blooded to—”
The lights cut off, enveloping them in total darkness. Red bulbs switched on and Fastal drew his revolver.
One of the newer soldiers began to shake. Fastal grabbed him by the shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Steady. You’re a true son of your clan, aren’t you?”
“Aye, sir…I just need to…” The soldier fished an amulet on a metal chain out from beneath his flak vest and fatigue top. He kissed it then stuffed it back down.
“Back to the command center,” Fastal announced. “We secure every vault on the way.”
A brief rumble passed through the cavern.
Fastal glanced over his shoulder to Tichon.
“OK, now this is getting weird,” Tichon said. “That was no bomb. Spent enough time in the bunkers on the eastern front to know the difference.”
“Agreed.” Fastal broke into a jog, hurrying past vault doors toward a stairwell at the end of the long hallway. He bounded up the stairs two at a time and reached for the handle. It swung open and almost knocked him over the railing.
A soldier fell into Fastal’s chest, his back bloody, a deep gash across his cheek exposing teeth and gums beneath.
“D-demons,” the soldier said and then fell with a gurgle and rolled onto his back.
“Get him stabilized.” Fastal did a quick peek around the open doorway as the sound of gunfire echoed through the tight confines of the access tunnel. White overhead lights flickered on and off amongst the red of the emergency systems, throwing a macabre mimicry of the night sky across the mountain bunker. A hint of smoke in the air made him aware that he didn’t have a gas mask or a respirator with him.
He ran down the access tunnel and skidded to a stop next to an empty munitions trolley with a broken wheel. Dark blood smeared the floor and walls. He’d been through here less than a half hour ago, and there’d been a bomb on the trolley. The warheads were heavy, far more than a team of men could carry on their own, but the bomb was…gone.
The double doors at the end of the tunnel were on the ground, torn from their hinges.
“What by the dark of the moon…�
�� Tichon said.
Muzzle flashes punctuated the darkness beyond the doors, accompanied by screams and shouts.
“For the King!” Fastal charged forward. He slid feet-first through the doorway and bumped into the back of a utility truck in the main cavern where prefabricated offices ran along the sides of a runway cut into the mountain.
Gunfire echoed through the cavern, interspaced with sharp, electric snaps.
He leaned around the truck bumper and saw a warhead…floating a few feet off the ground, a pair of shiny discs attached to the underside.
“Look out!”
The truck slammed into Fastal and he went flat as its parking brakes failed and it rolled over him. Gunfire broke out all around him and he cursed that he was trapped beneath the truck in the vital moments that his men needed him.
A matte-black, metal-shod boot stomped down in front of his face. There was a peal of electric snaps and the reek of ozone almost made him gag.
The truck hit the side of an office trailer, leaving the engine compartment just over him.
One of his soldiers fell to the ground beside him, his chest riddled with bloody holes. Grabbing the dead man’s submachine gun, he pushed the body away, rolled out, and came up to one knee.
A tall figure stood next to the floating warhead, its armor the same subdued darkness, melding into the chaos of light around them. There was a tight scaffolding around the arms, shoulders, down the spine, and around the waist. Nearly two feet taller than Fastal, it held Tichon by the neck with one hand.
The older soldier’s feet dangled over the ground and he gasped for air, struggling against the iron grip.
The monster pulled Tichon close to its face. Fastal watched in horror as it canted its head slightly from side to side, as if examining Tichon for a moment, then snapped the soldier’s neck with a flick of its wrist, dumping the body to the ground.
Fastal fired from the hip, letting the recoil raise the muzzle and stitching bullets up the thing’s back. Hits erupted into sparks and there was a tug of pain on his forearms as shrapnel sprang back and cut into his flesh.
The demon whirled around and a fist struck the front of the machine gun, tearing it from Fastal’s hands. Its face was a frozen obsidian skull, a carving of some sort of serpent slithering from the mouth and into the eye socket.
It swung an overhand blow at him, blades on the fingertips flashing in the light.
Fastal reared back and felt the massive hand shift the air in front of him as it barely missed his face. He tripped over a body and fell against the roughhewn rock wall.
Rifle fire sprang off the demon’s back and hit the floating warhead, sending it in a slow spin.
The demon gave a guttural cry and twisted around. It moved between the bomb and the gunfire and raised a hand. Rapid snaps erupted from a small cylinder mounted on the forearm and white flashes came so fast, Fastal thought he was seeing fireworks from a Gods-day celebration.
The office pod against the truck erupted into flames and smoke billowed up and hit the roof.
Fastal coughed and tried to crawl away, his lungs seizing up as hands grabbed him beneath the shoulders and dragged him forward. A mask went over his face and he took greedy breaths as he felt himself lifted up.
He fought against whoever had him, finally twisting away and hitting the ground—soil littered with tree needles. He was outside.
Ripping off the gas mask, Fastal rolled onto his back. He was surrounded by a small circle of soldiers, each in flak vests and helmets and carrying proper battle rifles with wooden stocks.
Hatch-back trucks with no covers over the beds and a few jeeps with pintle-mounted machine guns had formed a perimeter beside an emergency access door into the mountain base.
“Sir! Thank the gods we found you,” a captain said. “We’re the alert force. Sorry we didn’t get here sooner but—”
Fastal coughed out the last of the smoke in his lungs and slapped his holster. The revolver was still there.
“What do you know?” Fastal accepted a hand and was pulled to his feet.
“We saw the weird lights in the sky. When we couldn’t reach anyone in the bunker, I decided to bring the force up to see what was going on. I just…I thought that’s what you would do, General,” the captain said.
“We’re under…some sort of attack. They’re here for the warheads.” Fastal looked up just as a dark blur roared overhead and angled into a steep climb. One of the machine guns mounted on the jeeps opened fire. Tracer rounds swept up, missing the craft completely.
“Sorry,” said the gunner, straightening his helmet. “Sorry, reflex.”
“My scouts saw where they landed.” The captain pointed to the trees at a narrow pass cut into the mountain. “That’s the access road to the radar station. I can’t get my—”
“You have anti-tank launchers?” Fastal asked.
“Yes, sir.” The captain opened a wooden crate and held up a metal tube.
Fastal snatched it out of his hands.
“Dismount the machine guns. Everyone on foot with me. Comms?” Fastal pointed a knife hand at a soldier sitting in the front seat of a jeep.
“Nothing, sir.” The man held up a handset and whacked it against the dashboard. “Can’t even get civilian radio stations.”
“Then leave the vehicles behind. Follow me.” Fastal took a step forward and almost fell on his face when his balance wavered. The captain caught him and straightened him up.
“Sir,” the captain said, looking at his hands, “you’re bleeding.”
“Not bad enough to worry.” Fastal shook blood off a hand and moved into the forest. “What did your men see?”
“They look like planes, but they don’t match anything the heretics fly—or even the Slavers. They landed straight up and down like a helicopter, but they don’t even have jet engines. Or propellers. Bunch of really tall—”
“I saw one up close. Don’t bother shooting them with low-caliber rounds,” Fastal said.
The captain looked at the pistol in his hand, then shrugged.
They ran past a shack where thick cables snaked down from a radar dish mounted on a cliff, then onto a narrow path in a thick forest.
A strange warbling noise filled the air and Fastal’s ears began to ring. He climbed up a boulder and peeked over the top.
At a small landing pad outside the main entrance to the bunker, one of the aircraft the captain described hovered in the air. It came down slowly, skids folding out from the smooth underside as it settled down. More of the dark figures he’d seen inside were there, forming a loose perimeter around the entrance.
A neat, rectangular door had been cut out of the giant metal blast doors. The yard-thick, reinforced steel that had been there had fallen forward and somehow been moved out of the way and pushed up against the car park.
“What—what are those things?” the captain asked.
The rear of the alien craft lowered, and demons came out of the bunker, each with several floating warheads in tow.
“Have your men spread out. Rocket launch on my signal. Suppressive fire from crew-served weapons during reload.” Fastal put the launcher on his shoulder.
“We’re going to…attack?” The captain’s eyes grew wide.
“Can’t let them get away with the warheads. They wouldn’t be here for them if they weren’t important, right?” Fastal spat bloody phlegm into the dirt.
“But shooting the warheads with the rockets…”
“Don’t aim for the warheads. The ship.”
The captain was about to object further, but then nodded quickly and vanished into the underbrush.
Fastal watched as warheads floated up and into the craft. He felt like he was trapped in some sort of communion nightmare, but there was no priest there to guide him out of the darkness.
How had the King known to reactivate him just before this happened? If the King and his counsel knew the bunker was threatened by…whatever these things were, why hadn’t he dispersed the w
eapons across the military?
The procession of floating warheads continued and Fastal considered trying to strike one with his launcher. It would all end in a bright flash…and he was pretty sure the demons weren’t tough enough to survive that.
He readied the launcher by unsnapping the cover off the trigger and flipping a switch on the side. Fastal inched over the top of the boulder, aimed the glowing sights on the warheads, then shifted his aim to the craft.
The launcher fired with a crash of smoke and flame. He held on to it and watched as the rocket sizzled through the air and a shield of light activated over the craft and the rocket bounced off, exploding high in the air and raining bits of shrapnel over the shield. A volley of rockets fired by the reaction force suffered the same fate.
“Reload!” He handed the tube to a soldier at the bottom of the boulder. “Captain! Aim for the nukes!”
Machine guns opened fire, a sharp staccato of out-of-synch rhythms.
The soldier with the box of rockets fumbled with the reload. He had no rank rings on his arm and looked far too young to be in a uniform, while the sound of battle almost calmed Fastal. He was home again.
He slid down the boulder and snatched a rocket out of the young man’s hands. He rotated it onto the breech and pulled the safety pin.
“Just like that, yeah?” Fastal tossed the pin aside.
Explosions ripped through the forest. Trees shattered and fell around him, their trunks alight, branches burning like torches. Debris crushed the young soldier, who died without the chance to cry out.
Something whacked Fastal in the shoulder and sent him sprawling into a pile of burning branches. He rolled out, slapping at his sleeves and pants to put out flames.
Against the smoke and fire, atop the boulder from where he’d fired stood one of the demons, its face a frozen grimace, its lips pulled back over sharp teeth. A ring of Tyr ears were strung up in a grotesque necklace over its chest plate.
The box of rockets was within arm’s reach, its contents spilled out across the ground. Fastal swept his left hand across the dirt and touched a rocket, the safety pin still in place.