Plaguelands (Slayers Book 1)

by Jae Hill

  A few hours had passed while reading more and more about what the Republic knew of them since “the Lockdown.” Often the Republic’s recon satellites would be “laser-flashed” as they went overhead, rendering their data collection useless. A few ships in orbit had been flashed too, just enough to scramble their optics and data collection efforts, but never any real damage. Soon the Cascadian Fleet captains just kept their ships on the horizon, out of range of the laser disruption, and the flashes ended.

  An alarm rang, and the lights immediately switched to a dim red in the cockpit.

  “What the hell?” I screamed.

  “Incoming missiles?” Morgana yelled as she confusedly read the display.

  Almost on cue, an explosion rocked our craft, lurching us sideways. Then another, this one actually doing a bit of damage to our left wing and dropping us rapidly out of hypersonic speed.

  “Hold on to something,” she gritted her teeth, and pushed forward on the control stick.

  The craft dropped like a rock.

  “How are far out are we?” I screamed over the alarm buzzer, which she then silenced.

  “We weren’t even scheduled to drop out of hypersonic for another thirty minutes,” she grimaced as she leveled out the jet. “That must have been a ship, part of an air defense picket. We’re out of range of him now, but there might be more.”

  Morgana kept us at supersonic speed, just a hundred meters above the water. At this altitude—with the additional air pressure—we’d burn fuel much faster and we’d put extra stress on the wings. A few quick calculations and she slowed us to just Mach 1.71.

  “The perfect balance of fast…and alive,” she laughed, flicking more switches and then resting back in her chair.

  I switched the ground radar up to the main display so we could see what else was out there. The islands were approaching quickly now, and we’d be setting up the landing approach in ten minutes.

  “There,” I pointed on the display, a hundred kilometers to our north.

  “Shit,” she grumbled. “Another patrol ship.”

  Morgana slid the accelerator lever forward and the craft rocketed forward to Mach 3.5.

  “No one,” she said quietly, “has missiles faster than that, right?”

  I looked out the window and could see that the wake from our sonic boom was creating turbulence on the water below, throwing up a spray a half kilometer behind us. The plane rattled and we both shook from the air turbulence at this speed: this particular jet didn’t have wings so much as it had stubby airfoils to control the trajectory of what was essentially a rocket-powered dart.

  The missile alarm cried out again, and the air radar display showed the warhead closing in on us. At a kilometer out, it detonated. You would think at that range, it wouldn’t have done much.

  You would think.

  Instead the force of the explosion sheared off the tail. Ripped it clean off. My ears rapidly and violently popped with the decompression of the cabin.

  “I’ve lost rear stabilizer control. Can’t trim it for some reason,” she yelled over the roar of the wind through the open cabin behind us. “Shit, Pax, I’m not good enough to land this thing.”

  “You don’t have a choice,” I screamed back.

  The jet was decelerating rapidly now. It was designed to ride the front of a sonic shockwave, and now that it had lost a good part of its aerodynamics, the drag was slowing it down and ripping pieces away.

  “There,” I pointed out the window, ”see the runway?”

  We could see the island and the runway of the airfield. She started the landing sequence, wherein the stubby wings extended to increase lift and the landing gear descended.

  Little black shapes were lifting off from the runway. Dozens of them.

  “Are they-” Morgana started. “Are they launching fighters?”

  “Just land this bird,” I pleaded. “Please.”

  The black shapes grew closer. Soon they were ripping past us. They looked like some kind of giant, mutated, black butterflies. Delicate but almost sinister. I couldn’t see the pilots or any weapons, but they circled us until we were on approach.

  “Why aren’t they shooting?” Morgana asked, to no one in particular.

  The runway was coming up very quickly through the windows of the cockpit. We could see the bright lights of the city and the giant glass spires, but I don’t think either of us was worried about those.

  “Kerguelen Tower,” she called into the radio. “This is Cascadia Two-Two-Three on a diplomatic mission. Requesting permission to land.”

  There was no reply, but we saw the black butterflies flitting about us again, staying in formation with us.

  Morgana repeated herself into the radio. This time a tinny voice replied, in perfect English:

  “Cascadia Two-Two-Three, you are cleared to land on Runway Thirty-Two L, but be advised, your left landing gear is not deployed.”

  Morgana brought the system status screen up on the display and it showed the gear was deployed. She retracted the gear and it still showed as deployed.

  “Well, this is going to suck,” she grumbled, deploying the gear again, then retracting it.

  “We’re going to do a belly landing,” Morgana said, looking at me sheet white. “I did this in the simulator one time. It rarely ends well.”

  I nodded and she eased the plane in. The front canards gave a little bit of rudder-like controls, but at slow speeds this plane had very little maneuverability. It jerked and yawed and pitched with every gust of wind.

  The altimeter slowly ticked down absolute altitude above sea level and the relative altitude to the ground.

  We were now coasting above the runway, four meters off the ground.

  She deployed what was left of the aerobrakes.

  Three meters. Two meters. One meter.

  Then a screeching, scraping sound I can’t even describe. The plane skidded straight on the runway for a moment, then the left wing stub caught the tarmac and we spun like a top, careening into the grass. Mud and plants flew up over the windshield as the nose dug in. We jerked forward in our seats one last time, and finally stopped.

  “That could have gone,” I gasped, “a lot worse.”

  “We were just shot down,” she groaned. “I don’t want to know what ‘worse’ is.”

  I rubbed my stiff neck and did a quick mental checklist of my body parts. Everything was there, didn’t hurt too bad, and was in working order. Morgana seemed equally relieved.

  I unlatched my seatbelt and walked back toward the door of the plane. I could see out the gaping back hole of the aircraft, and wanting to avoid the mess of wires and twisted metal, I pulled on the side door handle and the door swung wide into the breezy Kerguelen air.

  The first thing I remembered was the smell: it was like rotting seaweed, but sweeter and more dank. The next thing I remember was looking around and seeing the rusted hulks of ancient jetliners as far as the eye could see. Then, I saw the military.

  They were clad in black and grey camouflage, surrounding the jet with guns drawn. At least I assume they were guns: they didn’t look like anything we had in the Republic.

  I heard voices speaking in a language I could hardly understand. It sounded like English but was significantly different. It was like singing, almost, as the vowels rose and fell like notes. Maybe yodeling was a better comparison. I didn’t have much time to think about it.

  “Get down!” a man’s voice shouted, without the sing-song accent. “Hands on your head!”

  I did as I was told, hopping down from the broken aircraft and then laying in the sweet, smelly grass. Morgana, poked her head out the door.

  “You too!” the man yelled again, and she did as she was told.

  Once we were down on the ground long enough to be soaked through our clothes, they finally came over and put metal rings around our wrists. The rings seemed to be held together by some magnetic force.

  “You will come with us,” a uniformed woman said sharply. />
  We were led, firmly but gently, to a waiting vehicle. It was like a car, but it had no wheels. It hovered above the ground, quietly humming, and it didn’t even rock or move as we stepped inside.

  Two armed guards followed us in.

  “Where are you taking us?” I asked politely.

  No reply.

  “Do you speak English?” I asked.

  One of them laughed, and the other smiled, but they said nothing.

  I decided not to press my luck with their good nature and remained silent as we crossed the runway and passed what I assumed was the ancient air terminal.

  When Kerguelen had been at its prime, they had constructed a massive airport to handle all the traffic from across the globe. When they had locked everything down in 2103 at the onset of the major C-virus outbreak, the planes had apparently just been left to rot. We passed dozens of massive jetliners—some as big as small starships. Then we crossed another runway.

  Here we were surrounded by dozens of those black butterflies. They were clearly fighter jets of some type. They daintily landed vertically on the tarmac—just like a Republic dropship—but there was something graceful about the way their wings changed shape and folded as they landed.

  We drove to a large white building. It looked as if it had been carved out of a single piece of steel and glass, and I couldn’t tell where the steel ended and the glass began. It was like something out of a fantasy world. A huge white spire stuck out from the top of the building, turning to glass at the top. Maybe this was the control tower. Maybe this was the base command post.

  The vehicle stopped and the doors were opened. We shuffled out and the guards followed behind us. More armed guards, in the grey and black camo, were waiting.

  A woman in a seamless black uniform, with a black beret, stood with her arms folded behind her back and her legs spread shoulder width. She had a gold star on each collar. She snapped to attention as we approached her.

  “I am General Olivia Skygard,” she said, “Commandant of Defense Forces Center, Kerguelen Field.”

  I saluted in the manner of our Fleet, and she returned the gesture.

  “I am Commander Pax Faustus, commanding officer of the ground forces of the Republic of Cascadia.”

  She seemed puzzled.

  “But you’re a human. A real human. How can this be?”

  “Things have changed, and drastically, I’m afraid. My pilot, Lieutenant Morgana Dell, and I are here on a diplomatic mission to ask for your assistance.”

  “Of course, I am not qualified to make such decisions,” Skygard said, “but I will arrange a meeting with our chairman for you.”

  I had read about the unique Kergueleni form of government. All residents of their Dominion had to serve the government for two years, then they could become “Citizens.” A chairman was elected by a majority of the Citizens every six years, and he appointed a Board of Directors. Everything was merit-based here. Service begat more responsibility, which begat more service. Wealth and influence still existed, but they got you nowhere unless you had served the people faithfully.

  She motioned for us to follow her inside, and we did, stepping off of the blustery tarmac and into a pleasantly warm, clean building. It had wide, airy halls and tall ceilings. Atriums filled with greenery, skylights, and plants were everywhere.

  “This building is beautiful,” Morgana whispered.

  I nodded. The offices all had windows that seamlessly and flawlessly blended into the walls. From a closer viewpoint, now, it appeared as if the walls and windows were all made from the same material. It was fascinating metallurgy.

  Marshal Burnham had been right: the Kergueleni were years ahead of the Republic.

  The general spoke with a male aide in that same sing-song language again, and the aide ran off.

  “You will sit here, please,” she said in somewhat broken English, pointing at some chairs, “and I will keep you company until Chairman Winterfall has decided what shall be done with you.”

  “You don’t speak English as a first language?” I asked, resting into a surprisingly comfortable leather chair.

  “No,” General Skygard smiled softly. “Common, as we call it, was inefficient and filled with contradictions and words with multiple meanings. In the mid-2200’s, a professor at Aeterna National University developed a beautiful and efficient derivative of Common which we call Kergueleni. But, Common was used by most people on the globe in the early 2100’s, and so most of the books and art we salvage from the Wastes was written in Common, and most of the survivors we find in the Wastes today still speak it, so we’re required to learn it in academy. All Kergueleni people speak Common, Kergueleni, and at least two other languages fluently. It’s required.”

  “You all speak four languages?” I chuckled. “That’s incredible.”

  “We may prefer isolation, Commander, but we aren’t savages,” the general laughed, the slightest hint of an accent creeping into her words.

  “Well your language is beautiful,” I stated. “It’s almost like singing.”

  “Inflection is very important,” she nodded. “Putting pitch on certain vowels or consonant clusters is indicative of the tense. Speaking Kergueleni is easy, but mastering it takes some practice.”

  The aide came back into the room, whispered something to the general, and then rushed out again.

  “It appears you’re going to be meeting the chairman over at the Citadel. You’ll be taking the Government Metro. Please, follow Specialist Silverlake.”

  We rose from the table, and she snapped to attention, pounding her right fist into her right shoulder, her face losing all trace of pleasantry.

  “Until we meet again, Commander Faustus.”

  “Until we meet again, General Skygard.”

  We were joined by four armed guards and escorted down another corridor to a stairway that led underground. At least two stories. We found ourselves in a bright white tunnel that stretched off into a pinpoint of light in either direction.

  Morgana and I stood silently, still cuffed in these strange metal rings. A train, looking like a silver bullet, quickly approached from the right, which I surmised to be north.

  There were no lines separating wall from window, and definitely no creases that could possibly have been doors, but sure enough the wall of the train opened and we stepped inside. Their materials were cut so precisely that even the doorframe of a train was imperceptible. I was really impressed.

  We accelerated on a magnetic track to hundreds of kilometers per hour, and then immediately started decelerating again. The train quickly came to a halt, without jerking a single one of us.

  “This way,” the specialist said, motioning toward the platform as the doors swung wide.

  The specialist was much less talkative than his boss, the general. He silently marched across the platform to a staircase. As we stepped onto it, it began moving. It didn’t look like an escalator—we had those in Cascadia by the hundreds. It looked just like a staircase, and yet it moved.

  Morgana was smiling broadly, as perplexed by the mechanics of it all, as I was.

  When we reached the top of the stairs and stepped onto the landing, the stairs stopped moving, appearing to be just another staircase.

  This building didn’t appear new or made of any sorts of advanced metals. In fact, this building was made of stone walls and polished marble floors. It looked old—much older than it should have been. The Kerguelen Dominion was only four hundred and fifty years old, and yet it looked like this building had stood for a thousand years or more. The vaulted ceilings stretched stories and stories above us. Our footsteps echoed through the hall, with bright windows to our right and intricate stone reliefs on the walls to our left.

  We stopped at a doorway flanked by two men in blue capes, wearing black, plumed helmets reminiscent of ancient Sparta. They wore black bodysuits underneath, and had gloved hands and heavy boots. They held black spears in their right hands and, in their left, black shields emblazoned wi
th a bird on it.

  The aide spoke with the guards, who nodded, and then we passed through the doorway.

  In there, was a man. A single man. He was bald with a short beard, and sat at a long, ornate conference table. The room smelled delicious.

  “Commander Faustus,” he said, standing, and smiling. As I approached, he took my hand and shook it, uncomfortably.

  “Mister Chairman,” I replied, stiffening a bit.

  “And Lieutenant Dell,” he said, grabbing Morgana’s hand as well. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Here, have some coffee and pastries.”

  Another aide brought cups of a steaming, acrid smelling beverage and plates of tantalizing, brightly colored cakes.

  “How do you take your coffee?” she asked Morgana and me.

  “Um,” Morgana said confusedly, “with my…right…hand?”

  The chairman laughed. “Just leave the cream and sugar for our guests, and leave us.”

  “Oh, but before you leave,” he called to her, “let’s take these things off. No way to treat our guests.” He pointed at the cuffs.

  A black-helmed guard came in from the outside and pressed his thumb to the metal ring on my wrists. The cuffs opened. There was no visible thumbprint reader. No hinge. They just opened. The guard released Morgana similarly, and then strode out the door, his cape billowing behind him. We took our seats at the table.

  “I’m sorry for the manner of your reception,” the chairman said, politely, “but we really don’t want outsiders here. They bring vileness. And I thought we’d made it absolutely clear to the Republic that if they stayed out of our airspace and didn’t spy on us, we’d be happy to leave them alone.”

  The smile on his face dropped abruptly. “So why are you here?”

  “Sir,” I said gently, making a direct and unwavering eye contact, “we came here because we have no choice.”

  I explained about the zombie hordes. About how they’d gone from a mindless pest to a concentrated army. About the Reverend. About Persephone. About the virus. About the evacuation.