by Jack Yeovil
“Ma… maaaaa…”
Chantal crossed herself and stood up, beating the dust from her clothes.
“Armindariz,” she said, “dig some more graves.”
IV
Quite apart from everything else, there was something badly twisted deep inside the system. Finney ran her checks again. Everything was responding perfectly. All the connections were solid. There were no apparent glitches. But there was still something wrong. It was working properly, but there was still something wrong.
The responses to her interrogation were a beat slower than they should have been. And too many files were refusing to open for her. The whole system was clamming up, keeping itself to itself. That was bad. She felt as if she were questioning a well-behaved child she knew was responsible for a series of atrocities. It was coming up with well-reasoned, plausible, rational excuses while sharpening a carving knife behind its back.
She had been sitting at her console for six straight hours now, testing everything. It was her way of keeping her head down and trying to live out the crisis.
Rintoon was stone crazy, and seemed to be taking Lauderdale along for the ride. All the people who had spoken up when there still might have been a way to end the craziness at Fort Apache were dead. It seemed that new corpses were falling out of the closet all the time. Finney hadn’t expected to wake up alive for this shift.
Colosanto called the names of the units still out there. Almost everyone had returned to base by now. She listed Tyree and Stack as overdue, even though everybody had given up on them by now. They were dead, for sure.
Finney’s screen lit up green, with four inch-high wavering letters picked out in black.
HELLO, it said.
HELLO, CATHERINE.
She started, and looked around. The other operators were absorbed in their own work, or staring disconsolately off into space.
IT’S JUST YOU AND ME, CATHERINE, the screen said.
“So?” she tapped.
SO, LET’S PAAAAARRTEEEE!
Sunbursts went off behind the writing. Skulls, bats and party hats danced in the corners. A deathshead blew a vibrating raspberry.
“Who are you?” she typed out.
THAT’S FOR ME TO KNOW, AND YOU TO FIND OUT.
“Jesus Christ,” she breathed.
GOOD GUESS, BUT WRONG, WRONG, WRROONNNNGG!
“Please identify yourself.”
FREAK OFF, RATSKAG!
“Lauderdale?”
KEEP SPINNING THE STRAW INTO GOLD, MY PRETTY. RUMPLESTILTSKIN’S NOT TELLING.
She turned in her chair, and considered calling someone over. She decided against it. This weirdness was way off the scale. Colosanto finished her list, and sat down again. The Lieutenant was near the breaking point, Finney knew. It was surprising that so few personnel had gone Section Eight.
She looked back at the screen. A dog like the one in the Tom and Jerry cartoons was battering a cartoon cat with a baseball bat. The cat’s head was knocked shapeless with each blow.
HERE, KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!
The cat’s head blew up like a helium balloon and floated off. The dog growled and vanished in an iris.
I TORT I TAW A PUTTY TAT!
“Why are you here?” she asked.
… TO PLAY THE DEVIL.
The printer started up, and Finney could have sworn she heard a mocking laugh in its noise. Or the “Th-th-that’s All Folks!” tune from the end of the Warner Brothers cartoons.
It was printing out a complete listing, in alphabetical order, of all the personnel in the fort. It was mostly in regulation black, but certain names were printed red.
She recognized them. They were the dead ones.
I’LL SAVE YOU, the screen offered.
Finney furrowed her brow. Why was whatever was lurking in the machine offering to save her?
I’LL SAVE YOU TILL LAST.
V
“Fort Apache does not respond.”
“That’s not possible,” Stack said.
Chantal accelerated as Federico hit the flat. They were out of the mountains now, back in the desert proper. The road ahead was clear. There was no traffic at all today. Even the road-rats were laid up somewhere. Not that any of them could have given Federico much of a chase.
“But it is so. I’ve tried all the frequencies. None of them are open.”
“Let me try.”
“You are welcome.”
She handed him the laptop, and he punched in his Cav callsign. A code number flashed.
“It’s acknowledging, but it’s not putting me through. It’s like we’ve been put on hold, at the back of a queue.”
“Freak.”
“I didn’t think nuns used language like that.”
“You’ve obviously never met one before.”
“That’s true.”
Federico held the road superbly. Stack envied Chantal her vehicle.
“It is possible that all the fort’s communications channels are in use to deal with some emergency,” she said.
“But unlikely.”
“Even so, it’s possible.”
“I’ve never heard of anything like that, and I’ve been in the blue for fifteen years.”
“In that case, the demons are in control of the fort. That’s bad.”
“You’re telling me.”
“No, it’s worse than you think. Fort Apache is a node on the datanet. It’s more complicated than St Werburgh’s. The systems all interface. If our enemy builds up significant strength, it can launch an attack on El Paso, and if El Paso falls, then all of Central and South America will fall.”
“Serves ’em right.”
“Spoken like a true American. Do you really imagine that national boundaries count for much in Hell? If your neighbours go down in flames, they’ll drag you too. El Paso is strategically placed for plenty of databases within the United States as well.”
“I’ve got a legitimate grievance against the CAC, Sister. My father died in action in El Salvador in 73.”
His Dad had been career army. He had been killed in a battle with socialist guerillas during the Intervention. It wasn’t even supposed to be a shooting war.
Chantal was quiet for a moment. “My father, too, is dead. I’m sorry.”
Stack caught something new in her voice, a touch of doubt, or fragility.
“When they shipped him out, he knew he wasn’t coming back. Don’t ask me how, he just knew. Before he left, Dad told me to do anything with my life except join the army. And here I am with stripes down my legs and none on my shoulder. Your old man, how did he feel about your… your calling?”
She flicked a row of switches on the dash. The windshield darkened against the glare of the sun. “I did not develop a vocation until after his death. He was not especially devout, but I hope he approves of my life. He too was a soldier, in a manner of speaking…”
“You said you were Swiss, didn’t you? I thought Switzerland was neutral?”
“Switzerland, yes. My father, no. He was, in his way, a crusader. He fought in the international courts for a better world. His name was Thomas Juillerat. He was murdered. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“It doesn’t matter. Europe must seem very remote from here. I think my father made a difference. I think he did something for the world.”
“The world, huh? The same one you’ve retreated from?”
She turned to him. “I am not a member of a sequestered order, Stack. I’m as much in the world as you are.”
“You sure aren’t like Sister Bertrille.”
Chantal laughed. “Sally Field, The Flying Nun, 1967 to 1970. Not one of the finer moments of American popular culture.”
“Is there anything you don’t know?”
“The future.”
“Yeah, that…”
VI
Lauderdale was washing his hands under the tap in the storeroom. He was being wilfully wasteful of the fort’s recycl
ed water. There was no one to stop him.
He could do whatever he wanted now.
His androids were still stood to attention. He saluted them, and laughed. The GloJo he had popped was taking effect. He needed the extra buzz. He had been under a lot of strain recently.
Under its dustsheet, one of the androids saluted back. Lauderdale jumped, his heart catching, and reached for his side-arm.
There was someone under there posing as an android.
He fired, and heard the slug ricochet off a durium skin. It was a real android, all right. The spent bullet spanged against the wall and fell to the floor.
With his gunbarrel, he tore the polythene away from the saluting form. It was an android all right, faceless and expressionless.
Could there be a malfunction?
Carefully, he approached. He had his access cardkey. The inspection plate was in the small of the thing’s back.
“Yo, there major, gimme some skin…”
The flipper-hand descended from its salute and struck the hot gun from Lauderdale’s hand.
“Yo, bro…”
“What?!”
The android stepped off its podium, loose-limbed and gyroscopically balanced.
“It’s me, Gilbert the Filbert, the Colonel of the Nuts!”
The android clapped its hands and stamped its feet. The metal floor shook, and the noise rung in the air.
“You been doin’ good work, sonny. Lots o’ nice blood spilled. Jus’ the thang for a long, hot afternoon. A tall, cool drink o’ deepest-crimson gore.”
The android hand-jived to an unheard tune. Its head nodded in time to the rhythm. Lauderdale backed against the door. He fought his fear.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” he said.
“Who were you expecting? Perhaps, Frank Sinatra?”
Lauderdale sank to his knees, and prayed. He gave thanks to the Summoner.
“Dooby-dooby-doo,” sang the demon.
“Praise be to Joseph.”
“Aww, quit grovellin’, babe. That’s such a bring-down. It ain’t lawful to be that awful. Lawdy-lawdy, Lauderdale, get yo ass in gear or face the fear.”
Lauderdale stood up, unsteadily. He looked into the metal face, trying to see the ghost in the machine.
“That’s better, hepcat.”
“The power. You have built up the power?”
“Ain’t yet, but it’s gonna be…”
The plan was going perfectly. Soon, El Paso would fall. And then the Continental Americas would be easy meat. The Hour of Joseph was within sight. Lauderdale felt a great thirst, a ravening hunger, an unquenchable lust, a ferocious aggression, a delicious need for food and drink and women and blood. He remembered Elder Seth’s promises of a future untrammelled by laws, restraints and codes, when the strong would have all their desires effortlessly fulfilled, and the weak would exist only to serve them. He could taste it in his dry mouth.
“When?”
“Soon, son. But we ain’t had all our fun here yet. Are there or are there not people still walkin’ around alive in this place?”
Lauderdale was overcome by the magnitude of the entity before him. His mind opened in all sorts of interesting ways, and he tasted the rewards that would surely be his before the day was done. The GloJo had loosened him up, but this creature was pulling him apart. The old Lauderdale, the yessir nossir pleasemaylkissyerasssir Lauderdale was as dead as… As dead as Rexroth, Badalamenti, Willeford, Brecher… As dead as all the others.
“Let’s get down and boogie to the band, Lauderdale,” said the demon. “We’re expecting company. Won’t that be a treat? A nice lady. She’s from Switzerland. A nice country, Switzerland. Lots of nice people live there. Her name is Chantal Juillerat, and she’s a nun. A nice name for a nice nun. Isn’t that nice, nice, NICE? I want you to do this one little thing for me, I want you to help me kill her. Do you think you can do that?”
Lauderdale nodded. He was nearly at the door. The wallpanel was open. The console humming.
“Goooooood!”
Lauderdale threw the switches. Slowly, the androids began to stir, to throw off their transparent shrouds, to line up behind their leader.
“Sir?” Lauderdale asked.
The android was straight and tall, its mechanisms ticking gently, the cadre lined up behind it.
“Sir?”
The android saluted again, but it was an automatic response. The demon was in some other part of the fort.
The killing machines waited patiently for his orders.
VII
Chantal let Stack drive. Federico did most of the work, adjusting to the Trooper’s slightly different style in the helmet. She was amused to note the Ferrari was slightly more curt with Stack than it usually was with her, as if bridling under a new master.
In the passenger seat, she tried to clear her mind. Mother Kazuko had taught her zen meditation techniques, and explained the equivalence with Western forms of prayer. It was at once a form of self-hypnosis and of devotion, a purging of physical and emotional pains, and a preparation for combat, or for death.
She wished the Mother could be here. She had come through in California last year, at great personal cost. After this was over, if she was still alive, Chantal would visit Kazuko in the San Clemente Retreat.
There was no shortage of parent figures in her life, she realized. Thomas and Isabella, for all their failings. In the church, Pope Georgi, Father Daguerre, Mother Kazuko, Father O’Shaughnessy. Outside, Mlle Fournier, Isabella’s admirers, Thomas’ bodyguards. Even Federico could seem paternal at odd moments. Of course, there was Our Father Who Art in Heaven. And, though she had never yet met him face to face, there was the Evil Father in Salt Lake City who had probably been distantly involved in the California business, who was certainly the prime mover in the current possession. Fathers, mothers, teachers, confessors. Good parents, evil parents.
She prayed for guidance. She prayed for strength.
If she were to die, she would leave so much undone. She would have liked to have found her father’s murderers. Not for vengeance, she told herself, but for Justice and to do his name honour. She would have liked a genuine reconciliation with her mother, to have found in her own prideful heart a way to forgive Isabella her shortfallings. She would have liked to have helped Father O’Shaugnessy find that point where the cybernet and the earthly plane intersect with the Divine. She would have liked to see the church grow under Georgi to the point when it no longer needed to deploy those with her special skills. Then, perhaps, she would seek out an enclosed order and atone for her sins by putting aside computers, martial arts, weapons and learning and devoting herself to tilling the soil.
In her mind, she saw herself as a tough old lady in a nun’s penguin suit, working with the sick, wresting crops out of rocky ground, singing in the choir rather than as a soloist, perhaps married, probably not…
“You are an ace, not cannon fodder,” Father O’Shaughnessy had told her once, “a gunslinger, not a grunt. And you must live with that for the rest of your life, always trying to live on a level with the rest of us. It will not be easy.”
She prayed wordlessly, inviting God into the void within herself.
She floated back, and found herself cross-legged in the passenger seat, her hands loosely together in her lap.
“There,” Stack said, “up ahead. No place like home. Fort Apache.”
VIII
“Colonel Rintoon,” said Lieutenant Colosanto, “we have a ve-hickle on the approach road.”
“One of ours?”
“No, but it’s been logged out of the fort. It’s the Ferrari that came with the Swiss Op, Juillerat.”
“She was a Maniak spy. It must be an attack.”
Finney swung round in her seat, and saw the Colonel, wild-haired and red-eyed, bending over Colosanto’s console.
“Sir,” she said, “Juillerat has diplomatic immunity.”
Rintoon stared at her balefully. He hadn’t shaved, and his stubble was most
ly grey. He had bitten his forefingernails to the bleeding quicks, but curiously left his other fingers alone.
“That’s what I said, Finney. She’s an agent of a foreign power. She is on a mission to subvert this command. I will not be subverted. I will not be liquidated. I will not be terminated. They’ll rue the day they crossed swords with Colonel Vladek W. Rintoon!”
Finney observed that Lieutenant-cum-Major Lauderdale had his holster flap undone. The uniform he had scavved from a dead officer was a size or so too large on him. He looked like a little boy dressed up in his father’s clothes. His face was impassive, as if Rintoon were running through a list of toiletry items the fort needed to restock on. She wondered which of her superiors was the more cracked.
“Colosanto, are the fort’s defensive systems operational?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then do your duty. Protect us from this aggressive enemy.”
Finney got up. Colosanto looked at her, chewing her lower lip.
“Snap to it, woman,” spat Rintoon.
Colosanto brought up the defence menu on her screen. In an inset, the bridge road appeared in an aerial view. A blip was advancing along it, tripping a succession of alarms. It wasn’t moving with any particular speed.
The lieutenant looked unhappily at her console, as if selecting a course of action.
A light flashed. Colosanto heaved a sigh of disproportionate relief. “Sir, they’re trying to open a channel of communication. It’s not an attack. It’s not an attack.”
Rintoon exploded, spittle flying. “Oldest trick in the book, woman. Attacking under a flag of truce. Typical Maniak strategy. Never appease, never compromise, never surrender. Be a good girl, and get me some weapons systems on line.”
Colosanto’s face fell.
“Come on, come on you freaking hagwitch. Do I have to do everything here myself?”
The Colonel was drooling. Everyone in the Ops Centre was huddled around Colosanto’s console. Finney took a look at Lauderdale, who was observing with a bland lack of interest. Colosanto’s fingers hovered in the air above her keyboard.
“What is today’s attack codeword?” Rintoon asked.
Colosanto was still frozen. Finney saw she was crying. She was sobbing quietly. Her hands shook, and fell to her lap.
“The codeword, soldier? Now? Cough up!”