by Jack Conner
“Yes, sir,” Lynch said.
“For now, though, everyone that’s not repelling the invaders is on assignment. The bastard James is somewhere in the camp. Since they have yet to find him in the palace by this time, I doubt they will. He’s snuck out somehow. We will find him, and when we do -- “
“Yes, sir!”
The officer indicated a patrol of six soldiers forming up. “Join them. Find Lynchmort James and I will forget about your flogging.”
Lynch swallowed and nodded. Joining the squad, he set off with them into the encampment. Other teams scoured for him, too, and they coordinated with each other, searching the lanes one by one. Along with the unit he’d been assigned to, Lynch stormed one tent after another. The diggers that had not been invited to the royal feast hunkered in nervous lines outside their tents while troopers inspected them.
In one, Lynch caught his reflection in a mirror, and everything changed.
He had sweated so much throughout the day that the make-up he had applied to hide his scars was beginning to run. If he didn’t either escape or reapply it soon -- he had hidden the make-up in his boots -- someone would notice. Though the sun’s rim touched the horizon, he couldn’t count on the coming dark to hide his appearance. The make-up was running too swiftly.
Lynch cringed as they entered the next tent, larger than the others. Lines of cages, one stacked on each other, occupied the enclosure, and in each cage huddled a man or woman, sometimes several pressed against each other. Dressed in rags if they were dressed at all, they looked exhausted and terrified. Many bore holes along their spines. The troopers laughed and banged their guns against the bars, and the prisoners cowered back.
Lars Gunnerson’s cows, they had to be, as well as victims for the Queen. Eliza had told him about her feeding habits. The troopers peered into each cage, inspected each prisoner to be sure Lynch wasn’t posing as one of them.
The troopers congregated before a certain pen. Inside sat a pretty girl not yet out of her teens. Dressed in rags like the rest, she shrank against the rear corner of the cage with her legs drawn up to her body, and the glare she unleashed at the Germans should have been lethal. The troopers leered and talked to each other in low voices.
“When we go off duty, girlie, we’ll show you a good time,” one said.
Tears filled her eyes, but her face was a mask of fury. Lynch’s mind churned.
As they left the tent, he again caught sight of himself in a mirror. Even worse than before.
When they finished that row of tents and the troopers were taking a smoke break, Lynch broke off for a bathroom visit. In the latrine he reapplied his make-up, took a leak, and collected his thoughts. That girl . . . the others . . . No, he told himself. Stick to the mission!
He reemerged into full dusk, with purple light bathing the mountains in every direction. The air blew cold, and gooseflesh prickled along his arms. Lord Wilhelm must be leading a successful resistance against the invasion, as Lynch heard no gunfire.
The girl . . .
“Damn it,” he hissed.
Despite himself, he returned to the tent containing the prisoners, making sure his group did not see him.
Lars Gunnerson was just leaving the very same tent.
He held a strange-looking device that was half gun, half needle, with a long hose snaking out the back. It had to be what Fieglund had referred to as a needle-jack. Gunnerson had just harvested some spinal or brain fluid, after waiting for the troopers to finish their search of the prisoners’ tent.
He had possibly just killed someone. Yet his face betrayed no emotion. He wore his red glasses even in the dim light.
Lynch followed.
Gunnerson ducked inside a certain tent, and Lynch realized it was the laboratory tent he had visited that morning, in which he had encountered Fieglund and the prototype. It did not surprise him that Gunnerson would have maintained it. After all, he could not report Lynch’s attack on it to the others; he had been using it to plot against the Queen! He would have kept the assault secret, aired out Fieglund’s gas, surreptitiously removed the bodies (possibly after draining them of brain and spinal fluid, if they were not contaminated) and continued his research quietly. The alert had gone up because the doctor and nurse had been found, not because of Lynch’s fight in the lab tent.
No troopers guarded the entrance. They must be either off fighting or hunting him. Likely they had already searched the tent, though they had only been searching it for Lynch, not traitorous experiments.
Lynch needed the prototype. If he’d had that, he could have openly attacked the Queen and the Prince earlier. If only he had a gun for use against Lars.
“No guts, no glory,” he muttered, and slipped into the tent.
Lars Gunnerson stood in the middle of the enclosure, his upper body naked. The red-faced man that Lynch had kicked in the knee that morning -- a brace supported the leg -- was behind him, and as Lynch watched he injected something into Gunnerson’s spine with a thick syringe, obviously the just-harvested spinal fluid. Lars winced but did not make a sound. His face was rigid. He was feeding.
Lynch ripped off his left glove and sprang at them.
Gunnerson threw himself forward, off the tip of the scientist’s needle. A drop of fluid spurted out.
Surprise, then anger, filled the red-faced man’s face, and he slashed the needle at Lynch’s belly. Lynch swerved, swung his hook at the man, missed, and the man staggered back. Lynch kicked him hard in the other knee. The scientist howled. Collapsed.
Lynch wheeled on Gunnerson.
Half naked, Gunnerson crouched in anticipation. His body showed surprising musculature for one who carried himself as such a dandy, and sweat beaded muscles taught from the pain of feeding.
“You’re disgusting,” Lynch said.
Gunnerson glared at him, then laughed. “I’m disgusting? Look at you! A ragged ruin of a man. What is that in your eye? A marble? God, but you are pathetic. How could you have been the one to kill my sister, my servants, burn down my house, destroy my art?” He snorted. “Did you come in here to challenge me? And you don’t even have a gun!” He smiled easily. “Very well, then. I will end it.”
He rushed Lynch.
Lynch dodged aside, struck at Gunnerson as he passed. Gunnerson swiveled with amazing agility, ducked under the blow, and launched himself at Lynch. Lynch’s back struck the floor. The air exploded from his lungs. He looked up to see Gunnerson ball a fist and raise it, coiling his arm for a blow.
Lynch bucked. Thrashed. Tried to move his hook, but Gunnerson’s right hand pinned it to the floor. Lynch punched Gunnerson in the stomach, then the ribs. The blows bounced off.
Lars Gunnerson brought his left fist down on Lynch’s jaw, and Lynch’s world turned sideways and blurry. He swam in nothingness.
Gunnerson straddled him about the waist. Lynch drove his knees up, trying to kick Gunnerson in the balls, but the knees simply hit Gunnerson’s buttocks to no effect. He jabbed Lars in the side, the rear, tried to hit a kidney. His hand bounced off.
Gunnerson struck him. The world dimmed. Strength deserted him. He had to do something fast or he would die.
Feebly his hand scrabbled behind him. Found the red-faced man’s syringe. With his last strength, he jabbed it into Gunnerson’s throat.
Gunnerson screamed and arched backward. Both of his hands flew to his neck. Lynch swiped his hook at Gunnerson’s belly. Gunnerson rolled aside and Lynch’s hook cut empty air.
Lynch crawled to his feet, his world blurring and misting before his eye. He knew he was no match for Gunnerson physically. Gunnerson might be a disgusting vampire, but he was also a superman.
A shirt and jacket draped across a chair. Lynch grabbed them both, ran to the rear wall of the tent and, without wasting a beat, rolled under the canvas.
“Coward!” Gunnerson bellowed behind him.
Lynch rose to his feet in the cool, darkening night, and the chill mountain wind roused him. The world still seemed to s
pin, but under the effects of the cold wind it began to steady.
Without any shame, he fled from the tent, hearing Lars Gunnerson shout for troopers. Lynch fumbled through the pockets of shirt and jacket and found what he was looking for, the reason Gunnerson needed the troopers.
Lynch pulled out the green stone, admired it for a moment, then shoved the prototype in his pants pocket.
***
Threading his way between tents, Lynch returned to the enclosure the prisoners were kept in. Soldiers called out in all directions. Here and there a shot sounded. I hope they shoot each other, he thought. It would save him the trouble.
When he saw that no one stood outside the prisoners’ tent, he ran across the lane and ducked inside.
He nearly bumped into the trooper.
“Halt,” the man said. “No one is -- wait -- you -- ”
He raised his gun.
Lynch knocked the rifle to the side with his right hand while his hook slashed across, severing the trooper’s jugular. The man staggered back, blood pumping from the wound. He fell and lay twitching, and Lynch relieved him of his gun. It felt good to kill someone after his farcically short fight with Gunnerson. Clearly Gunnerson -- and, likely, Lord Wilhelm and the other highly placed members of the Society -- used a stronger grade of serum than that given to the troopers. They may have believed in creating a race of supermen, but that did not mean that every member of that race would be equally super.
Lynch regarded the room. As before, he was greeted by rows and rows of cages stacked on top of each other in an orderly fashion. The stink of unwashed bodies and bedpans hit him, and he was tempted to light a cigarette against the smell. The keys sat upon one of the two desks in the chamber. Lynch grabbed them and went directly to the cage of the girl he had seen earlier.
When she saw him fumbling at the lock, she snarled and flung something, and Lynch smelled urine and offal as he dodged aside. Something wet hit his cheek and he wiped it away.
“You’ll get no pleasure from me, you bastard!” the girl said. “I’ll bite your cock off, you motherfucking piece of shitting filth! I’ll tear your throat open and -- ”
Lynch threw her the keys. “Get the others out. I don’t have time to unlock them all.”
She blinked. “What -- ?”
“The camp is thickest west and south, so cut east, it’s the easiest and quickest way out. There’s fighting to the south, so avoid it. I wish I had a cache of guns to offer you, but this one will have to do.” He threw her the rifle. “Now go. Hurry!”
The girl glared at him suspiciously. He realized she wouldn’t emerge until he had backed away. He retreated several steps and, sure enough, she scurried out, still coiled to run or strike. Nonetheless, she bravely unlocked the cage nearest her, then the one after that. There were several keys on the ring, one for each row, and she removed the ones she didn’t need and gave it to the prisoners she’d freed.
“Which way’s east?” she asked Lynch. Evidently she trusted him now.
He pointed. Without another word, he ducked back outside the tent. It was even colder and windier than before. In a few weeks or even days it would begin snowing. He felt the wind sting his cheeks, his eye. He relished it. His blood burned, and his heart tapped a crazy rhythm in his chest.
He navigated his way carefully through the camp, breathlessly avoiding the patrols that lanced the ground with electric torches. Had his own squad given up on his returning? Had they already figured him out? He had no particular plan except to keep ahead of the soldiers and find a place to hole up for a while.
He passed a grand stairway descending into the earth. Of black jade that gleamed by the light of the newfound stars, the stairs ended at a level stretch of more black jade leading to a set of grand, high doors of the same material, set in an immense, elaborately-carved façade also of black jade. Strange demons wrestled monstrous clockwork in bas-relief, and two god-like personages thrust out in the center. The construction looked somewhat Roman if Romans had used black jade, complete with high fluted columns, though the clustered statuary more resembled that of medieval Europe, but with Oriental designs.
Two guards flanked the doors.
Lynch had inquired about the doors earlier and discovered that beyond them lay the great doomsday devices that would bring about the Ascendance -- the dominance of Nazi Germany over the world. Or perhaps the dominance of Atlantis. It was supposed to be a labyrinthine place full of dark halls and weird machines . . .
The perfect place to hide.
Dare I?
Panting, he ran down the steps, toward the two guards.
“It’s him!” Lynch shouted. “It’s him! That bastard James! He’s after me! Get him!” He reached the guards and pointed up into the darkness at the head of the stairs. “He’s right behind me!”
Two lamps glowed on the ground. Now that Lynch was close they quite easily illuminated his hook.
It was already moving.
Even as one soldier raised his gun toward Lynch, the other fell to his knees, blood spraying from his severed throat. Lynch swiped the gun away with his hand, kicked the trooper in the leg. He aimed for the knee but only hit the side of it. The trooper made an oomph noise and half-collapsed. Lynch pushed him the rest of the way.
The soldier recovered, retrained his gun. Lynch kicked it aside, dropped to his knees, straddled the man, and punched him in the face. Again. And again. Lynch’s knuckles bled, and his bones ached, but it paid off, and the trooper went limp. Breathing hard for real now, Lynch rolled the man over, slit his throat, then stole his assault rifle and side arm.
Chest heaving, he stood to contemplate the immense doorway. Huge handles, fit for giants, had been set into it. Lynch tugged experimentally. He expected the great door to be quite heavy, and so it must be, but it was hung with rare skill and opened smoothly, though not without some effort.
Beyond, a high strange hallway beckoned.
Lynch peered into it for a moment, heart thumping. Not done yet, old boy, he reminded himself. He dragged one trooper inside, and the other. Hopefully their absence would be attributed to the search. After finding a handy spot to hide the corpses -- there were many -- he finally set off into the underworld.
He had to catch his mouth from falling open as he went. It was huge. Not only huge, it otherworldly. Instead of traditional walls there rose banks of great gears, the innards of some monstrous machinery, forming massive walls that stretched ridiculously high overhead. Lynch saw gears that must span fifty meters across or more, and immense cogs the size of vehicles. Not all of the gears were large, some were quite small, but they all fit together seamlessly, intricately, and as he watched they moved, teeth fitting into groves, turning, clanking. The sounds of beating and grinding filled the air. And it was all of jade. The gears came in many different colors -- red, orange, purple, black -- but the dominant color was green. Lynch walked through an eerie hell of green jade clockwork. Even the floors and walls, where there were walls, were composed of green jade.
It stretched on forever, hall after hall, some high and endless, some narrow, or low and winding, threading through the guts of the clockwork mechanism, or mechanisms. Was it all part of the doomsday device? Were there multiple devices? Purpose this machinery is what powered the city as a whole, or was Prince Jeselri and his diabolical mother working on other, more arcane projects? Lynch supposed he would never know. Whatever the case, the Society members, presumably following the writings of the Queen, had evidently restored the clockwork, got it running again. Doubtless the Queen’s arrival had sped the process along, and now that the Prince was here . . .
It all seemed functioning. There could not be much left for Jeselri to do.
Which meant that very soon, maybe even tomorrow as Lord Wilhelm had claimed, the world would end -- at least, the only world Lynch had any interest living in. The Queen’s world might go on -- a world of blood and decadence and casual evil. But there was still time yet to prevent that from happening.
<
br /> First, however, to find a place to rest. Lynch made his way through the strange, clanking halls, eye watchful, steps light. The air smelled of resin and ozone, and it lay cool and dry on his skin. H wished the troopers’ jackets were thicker. He passed several stairways, going both up and down, and realized this was a multi-story labyrinth, delving God only knew how deep. Indeed, once he crossed over a glass bridge and peered over into what seemed like a bottomless pit of green fire.
He was careful not to stare too long.
Beautiful jade sculptures of women in warrior attire stood at certain intersections, silent sentries in the clockwork forest, holding jade spears at the ready. Their eyes seemed to follow him as he went.
From time to time he would see technicians, usually in teams, clamber about on scaffolding amongst the clockwork, tinkering with a cog, applying strange-looking green oil to a gear. He kept well clear of them and stuck to the smaller, darker tunnels that did not seem to get as much traffic. Large sections of the machinery lay still and quiet, sometimes with cobwebs spanning immense open areas between giant gears, and Lynch assumed these sections did not comprise part of the doomsday device, which dovetailed with his theory that Jeselri had had other arcane projects in development at the time of the attack.
Lynch found a quiet area, curled up beside a motionless, musty gear, crushed a couple of odd-looking spiders that seemed to be made, of all things, of crystal, and closed his eye. Though he had taught himself to cat nap in the army, sleep eluded him for a time. Too many thoughts flashed before him, and in their center floated Eliza. No matter what happened, whether he lived or died, she must make it out alive. With that resolve, he finally drifted off to sleep.
He woke up, yawning and smacking his lips. His belly rumbled. Food.
How long had he been asleep? He knew from previous naps that no more than three or four hours must have passed. Plenty of time left to slip back out of this labyrinth, steal a bite, maybe a drink or two, and return to figure a way to sabotage this madness.
He stretched and yawned as he made his way through the halls toward the entrance. Having stolen one of the guards’ gloves, he fitted it back over his hook, but not before using the hook’s reflection to make sure his make-up was still in place. Lars Gunnerson had doubtlessly sent out word that Lynch wore the uniform of a trooper and that he no longer boasted an eye patch, but it was still a better disguise than nothing. After breakfast, Lynch decided he would steal the outfit of a digger.