Gunz

by William Stacey

  Unlike her mother and others, Tlathia harbored no sense of ownership of this world. The Ancient Enemy—those they called demons—might have tricked the fae seelie race into leaving this world a thousand cycles ago, but the fae seelie had left, abandoning all claims to it. We have no right to this world anymore. We certainly have no right to do what Mother wishes to the manlings.

  She opened her eyes, gasping. Such power! It washed over her, almost making her dizzy.

  "What is it?" Kargin asked, his two axes suddenly in hand as he spun about, looking for a foe that wasn't there. "Is it the Ancient Ones?"

  "It's begun," she said. "The return. My mother has opened a vast Rift-Ring nearby, to the northwest. Magic is flowing back into this world from ours."

  She saw the disappointment in his face, felt it herself. "But … this soon?" he asked.

  "My mother has advanced her plans. She seeks to stop us."

  "And those we seek? Did you divine them?"

  She shook her head, standing up. "No. I don't understand. I sense nothing. The records from before the Banishment describe their magical power as immense, like ethereal beacons. I was so sure I'd divine them the moment we set foot here, but … there's nothing."

  Kargin bit his lip, his face a storm of emotions.

  "Have faith, old friend," she said. "The Grandfather would not bring us here to fail."

  "It's not that," he said, rubbing his nose, looking down at his feet. "Before… before my father passed—before I eased his passage—he confirmed our suspicions about the ancient ones and their magic."

  A current of hope coursed through Tlathia. "Then they can … do what we need?"

  "My father believed so. But if we can't find them…"

  "Trust the Grandfather, old friend. But…" She paused, considering her thoughts. "It occurred to me while I was meditating that perhaps we're going about this wrong, looking for them."

  "What mean you?"

  "They may find us, or… rather, they may find my sister's forces. They're said to be attuned to the use of magic. They seek out those who cast spells. With the Rift-Ring my mother's mages have just opened, those we seek may move against Horlastia and her mages."

  Kargin's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What are you thinking?"

  She smiled, watching him. "I'm thinking, Kargin, protector of Deep Terlingas, that perhaps we should move closer to my sister's forces, see what she's up to."

  "Perhaps we could lighten their numbers a bit," Kargin suggested, returning her smile.

  "Perhaps," she mused, pulling the Shatkur Orb from a pouch on her belt and holding it in the palm of her hand. Small flashes of lightning flickered within its dark depths. "But for now let's just watch what my sister is doing. See if she attracts those we seek."

  Kargin's disappointment was clear. "If you think that best," he muttered softly, stroking his long, pleated red beard.

  "Patience, warrior," she said. "The time for battle will be upon us soon enough."

  She cast a trickle of magic into the orb, instantly opening a gateway to another part of the woods, one they had visited earlier while spying upon a manling community. Fire and smoke drifted through the magic ring, as well as faint screams in the distance. Tlathia went through first, an offensive spell ready. Kargin stormed after her.

  14

  Alex and his Serious Crimes cellmate were marching down the hallway past a guard station where a cluster of military police officers stood around a computer monitor, clearly agitated by something on a news channel. The MP sergeant who was leading them ordered them to halt then left them standing at attention while he joined the others crowding the monitor.

  What's wrong? Alex stared straight ahead but strained to hear the newscaster. When he heard the words "Fort St. John," worry wormed its way into his gut. When the newscaster breathlessly described an alien invasion and monsters, his blood ran cold. They're back. He knew the moment the thought flashed through his mind. Of course they're back. They were always going to come back.

  "Sergeant," he called out then repeated himself louder to get the man's attention. "A moment."

  The huge MP stormed over, placing his face inches in front of Alex's. "Private Benoit, something I can do for you? A mint on your pillow, perhaps?"

  "Sergeant, I need to make a phone call."

  "Are you drunk?" The sergeant's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You know the regs on phone calls. Is this the fifteenth of the month?"

  "Sergeant"—Alex's eyes darted toward the monitor—"you're gonna want to let me make that call. It's related to these events."

  The sergeant looked from Alex to the screen then hesitated, his face sweaty, his gaze uncertain.

  "This is NODUF, Sergeant, I swear."

  NODUF was one of those old army terms from the Second World War whose original meaning had long been lost to antiquity, but nowadays it meant that whoever was calling NODUF was making a solemn affirmation that this was a real emergency and not an exercise—army code for "take this shit seriously."

  The other MPs were staring at them now, watching the exchange.

  The large man sighed, his lips a tight gash. "It better be."

  GENERAL MCKNIGHT'S AIDE-DE-CAMP, a lieutenant, answered Alex's phone call. At first, the junior officer had been uninterested and brusque with Alex, the strain in his voice coming across the line clearly. Alex glanced at the news on the nearby monitor now announcing a series of other "alien incursions" all around the globe.

  No wonder the aide was distracted.

  But unless the aide put Alex on the phone with General McKnight, Alex would be marched straight back to his cell having accomplished nothing. "Lieutenant, this is vital," he said, interrupting the young officer as he was trying to tell Alex to call another time. "I served with the general when he commanded Task Force Devil under Operation Rubicon. He will want to speak to me."

  Alex wasn't certain that was true, but he had to do something.

  The line went silent for a few moments. Very few people were read-in on the top-secret operation—and none of them would have blurted out its existence over an open line. When the aide finally answered, there was hesitation in his voice. "You're the one in military prison in Canada, aren't you?"

  "I am."

  General McKnight had spoken for Alex at his court martial and had been vocal in insisting that Alex had saved his life. "He's not here, Captain." The man used Alex's old rank. "He's on a plane to Washington … I think you can understand why."

  "Does he have a sat phone?"

  The line went silent for a moment as the officer considered Alex's request. Three times in the last year, newly promoted General McKnight, the new chief of staff at USSOCOM, the United States Special Operations Command, had changed his busy schedule to visit Alex in cells. The aide would know this. The lieutenant cleared his throat, swore softly, then said: "Do you have a pen, Captain?"

  Alex glanced at the MP sergeant watching him from a foot away. He pantomimed writing something down. The MP sighed heavily, shaking his head, but handed Alex a pen and piece of printer paper. Alex jotted down the number the aide gave him then thanked the man and hung up. He dialed McKnight's sat phone number. The line clicked several times, and before it had a chance to ring, McKnight's gruff voice was on the other end. "Go," he said, clearly expecting someone else.

  "Sir, this is … Private Benoit."

  The line was silent for a moment. "Alex, Captain, it's good to hear from you. Are you still…?"

  "I am, sir. But that's not why I'm calling."

  "I can guess why you're calling, but this isn't a secure line."

  "This isn't the Russians or the Chinese, sir. It's not like the dark elves have a signals intelligence capability. It is them, isn't it?"

  McKnight snorted. "We really don't know what kind of bullshit magic capability they have, but you're right. It looks like it's them again—in a big way this time. Really big."

  "I saw the news about Fort St. John. What about our people?"

  "Off
the air." McKnight's concern carried across the line loud and clear. Task Force Devil had been his command, the Magic Kingdom his base. "At about 0500 hours this morning, they called in an air attack. We've lost contact since."

  "Air attack?"

  McKnight hesitated but then just came out and said it. "They reported a dragon was attacking the base. Not a basilisk, a dragon, breathing fire—all that shit. I heard a recording of the phone call. The duty officer was … well, he was losing his shit, understandably. Satellite coverage shows the base is gone, burned to the ground. Every single building and dozens of kilometers of surrounding woodland are now ash. It looks like a nuclear strike."

  "Oh, Goddamn it," Alex said softly, his pulse racing. They were his people as well, his friends.

  "It's worse," continued McKnight, "a lot worse. The base attack was only the first strike. It was followed up by what can only be described as… as an invading army that just appeared on the outskirts of Fort St. John. They attacked the city, killing indiscriminately. It's a disaster. Hundreds, probably thousands dead. We just don't know anything concrete."

  "I'm … we're hearing of other incursions."

  "At least a half dozen, maybe more, all over the world. Including one near the Arizona test site where we first accidentally created a gateway. Tell me that's a coincidence."

  "I'm sorry."

  "It's way worse for your countrymen. Fort St. John is the only attack on a population center—so far. All the other incursions seem to be in remote wilderness locations, and the dark elves—the ones the press is reporting as aliens—are just sitting tight, remaining in location. It has thrown the governments of those countries into turmoil. There have also been reports of people falling into comas near the incursion sites, just like last year with the three mag-sens. It looks like a full-scale global invasion by the dark elves. I'm meeting the president as soon as I get off the plane."

  "Dr. Simmons, Helena, she'd know more," Alex said.

  Helena Simmons, the chief scientist overseeing Operation Rubicon, understood more about interstellar travel and Rubicon than any other human—with the possible exception of Alex, who had actually commanded troops on Rubicon.

  "She might, but Helena was on the base when the dragon attacked."

  His throat tightened. Helena, Alex, and the general had worked very closely together on the operation. She was a friend. He cleared his throat. "The dark elves aren't stupid, General. They can't be underestimated. If this is an invasion, they have a plan. By now, they understand our superior firepower; they wouldn't take chances in open warfare with us. Even with their magic, we'd carve them up."

  "I can't talk anymore, Alex," the general said. "We're landing."

  "General, I can't just sit here."

  The line was dead.

  Alex hung up the phone, desperately wishing he had been with his friends. But if they're already dead…

  The burly sergeant put his hand on Alex's shoulder. "Is it … is it what they're saying on the news—aliens?"

  "I guess that depends on your definition of aliens."

  "What do we do?"

  Numbness spread through his core. "Damned if I know."

  The television screen now showed huge black clouds of smoke over Fort St. John. The moving text below the picture now flashed: massacres.

  15

  As the sun climbed, the morning grew warmer, soaking the back of Elizabeth's shirt beneath her backpack. The woods were dense, making progress slow, but she could now hear the dim burble of water on her left, the Peace River. Several times now, she had even seen glimpses of sparkling blue water through the trees, which meant she was headed in the right direction and, despite the rough terrain, should reach Taylor before noon. Birds chirped overhead, joined by the happy chatter of squirrels in the branches. It would have been lovely had she not been terrified of running into a bear. Despite having not seeing anything larger than a rather puzzled-looking raccoon, she knew bears were threats this far north, especially grizzlies, to which she'd be nothing more than a slow-moving meal. Could I even kill a grizzly with the small bullets in this rifle—before it ripped my face off?

  The acrid stench of smoke had finally faded, replaced now by the strong aroma of pine and wildflowers. Tall white spruce, lodgepole pines, and trembling aspens surrounded her in shades of green. Dead leaves, pinecones, and fallen needles cluttered the forest floor, clumped together to create thick carpets of moss—and often hiding treacherous footing. Several times now, she had had to circle widely around deadfalls, where storms had blown down trees. The delay was frustrating and often pushed her away from the river, but better than breaking an ankle.

  The north was as unforgiving as it was beautiful.

  She ate another protein bar as she hiked, washing it down with her second bottle of water. "Hydrate often," Swamp Thing had continually harped on her during long marches to build up her and Cassie's endurance. "Your body will shut down without water, long before you recognize the warning signs," he had insisted.

  She kept the empty water bottles, wondering if she could drink the river water, or if she needed to purify it first with one of the water tablets. What was that old Beaver People saying? "Drink the water and return." Or something like that? Cassie would know. She had been a ranger's assistant; Elizabeth had been a bookworm.

  Please, God, let Cassie still be alive. Don't punish her for my sins.

  Not like Clara.

  For the hundredth time that day, her fingers reached unconsciously for her rosary beads, but she had left them in her room last night. She sighed and pulled out her map, trying to estimate the distance she had travelled by counting the steps she had taken—yet another lesson that Swamp Thing had drilled in her. She now knew that, on average, she took 1117 steps to travel a kilometer… so she had that going for her. Given the terrain—and the obstacles she had been forced around—she probably hadn't travelled more than seven or eight kilometers, which meant, even being optimistic, she still had at least another ten kilometers before she reached civilization.

  I may not make it to Taylor before noon, after all.

  She refolded the map and shoved it down the front of her shirt then tried the radio once more. Nothing, just static. It was so eerily quiet that Elizabeth might have been the only person in the world. So focused was she on the radio, she didn't notice she was out of the woods until she stepped onto the stony southern bank of the Peace River.

  Euphoria washed over her as she rushed to the river's edge, where she dropped her pack, set her rifle atop it, and stretched, noting how sore her back was. The current, while hardly rapids, was still too strong to swim across—even without the pack and rifle. On the far bank, rocky cliffs a hundred feet high rose like a wall. Fort St. John was on the other side of those cliffs, perhaps only three kilometers away. But with the river, she might as well have been on the other side of the planet. The sky behind the cliffs on the far bank seemed … hazy, too dark.

  Smoke!

  Her chest tightened with fear. Had the dragon attacked the city as well?

  Please, God, no.

  Stephen and the others.

  Fear clawed through her, causing the riverbank to tilt wildly about her. She gasped, vertigo threatening to knock her down, and she bent over, gasping for air, her panic building uncontrollably.

  Then she heard a voice in her head. She knew it was just her imagination, but she latched onto it just the same, like a lifeline thrown to a drowning person. Be calm, mambo, my magical lioness, Swamp Thing admonished her in his thick, deep voice with his Creole accent. You can't change what has happened. Be calm and live, or panic and die.

  So she concentrated on her breathing, on managing her fear.

  Swamp Thing was an enigma, a larger-than-life African-American Delta Force operator, a Tier-1 assaulter who had to always be the center of attention, despite all the other alpha males in the task force. At first, Elizabeth had thought him little more than a stereotype, the huge bald man with the googly eyes, devilish
grin, and French-sounding accent. But when he spoke, the other men and women of the task force listened, and among the elite soldiers, there was no greater badge of authority. So Elizabeth listened as well. Swamp Thing, in turn, adopted her. Whenever Swamp Thing would sit Elizabeth down and mentor her on some aspect of professional soldiering, the other soldiers would roll their eyes and make jokes about him "adopting a stray kitten." But he would insist Elizabeth was no kitten, but a lioness, a magical lioness born for battle. He might have had a larger-than-life personality and gigantic male swagger—and more than a bit of a Type-A-for-Asshole personality—but there was way more to Jules "Swamp Thing" Tio than anyone else realized. He was one heck of a soldier and a fine man.

  And he had confidence in her.

  Even if she didn't feel like a magical battle lioness.

  She remained like that, bent over and breathing deeply until her panic subsided and her heartbeat calmed. That's it, she heard Swamp Thing whisper in her head. That's my lioness. When she stood upright again, her fear was still there but manageable now.

  "Okay, Swamp Thing," she whispered. "What now?"

  She knew the answer: food, calories to fuel her muscles as she hiked through the rough terrain. Even though her stomach felt as if it were tied in knots, she ripped open the DVD-sized cardboard box containing a tinfoil-wrapped MRE—macaroni and cheese—and used the long plastic spoon inside the box to mechanically shovel the cold food into her mouth. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't as disgusting as she had thought congealed macaroni and cheese would be. When she was done, she drank her last bottle of water then refilled all three in the river and dropped a water purification tablet in each. Better safe than sorry.

  When she was ready to set off again, it was almost 10:00 a.m. She tried the radio one last time then repacked it, threw her pack over her shoulders, picked up her rifle, and began to plod east along the rocky shoreline.

  Soon, she saw the outskirts of Old Fort across the river, a small community sheltered against the base of the Peace River valley. She could just make out the riverfront homes, farms, and long lawns that ran down to the river. She didn't see a single person, which seemed odd given it was a weekday morning.