Suffrage (World Key Chronicles Book 1)

by Julian St Aubyn Green

  “Go! I’ll hold them off as long as I can,” Sarge commanded. She stood and headed back out the way they had come in.

  “But—”

  “Just go!” Sarge yelled, pulling up the shinkari rifle and positioning herself. Snake knew she’d fill this corridor with deadly energy before she allowed anyone to pass. The only hope for them all was Jay reaching the world key first.

  Snake shook his head and moved along, ushering Mack and Jay as they studied the squealer’s map display. They were positioned badly, with a maze of rock between them and the descending shaft. Other passageways were clearer, and half-a-dozen tunnels connected in the chamber that held the sinkhole. It was just misfortune that they seemed to be in the most difficult tunnel to traverse.

  As they approached a squeeze, Snake glanced again at Sheila’s dials, fascinated. He stopped moving. “Sheila?” he queried.

  There was a sound like an electronic stretching of muscles.

  “Pilot Adder. Whatever you are doing is rapidly recharging my reserves and it’s having a strange effect on my power core. This source must be immensely powerful and quite close by.”

  “I’m not doing anything. It—could it be the key?” he enquired of both everyone and no one in particular.

  He experimented, moving forward a dozen paces and watching the power level indicator visibly rise. “Whoa.”

  “Indeed, Snake. I am detecting a very strong harmonic emission that appears contained to this location. We appear to be experiencing bleed effects from a powerful source. Given our location, you are most likely correct.”

  Snake stopped as Mack and Jay climbed laboriously over frozen rocks and squeezed themselves past obstructions, surrounded by hovers to light the way. Mack swore, her terror palpable, as the backpack containing the ropes they’d need snagged in the close confines. She struggled out of the straps, losing precious time as Jay waited. That distant, introspective gaze and furrowed brow still painted an expression of confusion across her face.

  Snake watched the power indicator as he stood there, his mind whirling with images of everything that had happened since being in this timeline: the destruction that followed in their wake, the loss of innocent life, and his crushing sense of responsibility. His anger eclipsed his exhaustion and bone-weariness as the influx of energy into Sheila meant that now he could do something.

  Snake cracked the knuckles on both hands and shook them to increase the blood flowing in his fingers for what was to come. He headed back to Sarge’s position at a run.

  “Sheila,” he said with a note of steely determination in his voice, “let’s rock.”

  Mr. Delta and the prince moved in the wake of the Elites as they ran down a long tunnel, walls of smooth, striated rock making their passage easy through this section of the caves. The countess had plotted the most efficient way through the maze of rocks between them and the prize, striking a balance between directness of route and number of obstacles. She’d programmed a group of hovers and the small lighting devices guided them like a cloud of bright fireflies, illuminating the way.

  The Elites moved smoothly, alert for any attacks, but it was a hellish trek for Delta. All those years ago when Queen Ilya healed him, removing his scars was secondary to saving his life. His skin pulled in uncomfortable ways when he ran, and clambering around obstacles stretched his scar tissue.

  To take his mind off his abused body, Delta concentrated on the prince’s deadly intentions. The prince considered him an obstacle after all; the only question was when to strike. Delta’s primary objective was clear: retrieve the world key. The prince’s death for his betrayal was a matter of opportunity. But Delta could feel the prince’s resolve to take the world key for himself. Heinrich hadn’t specified when or how the prince should die, and he would provide a useful distraction when they encountered the Rebels.

  In the close confines of the tunnels, full of twists and branches, the Gift of pyromancy would allow the prince to strike around corners and fill the tunnels with flame. He should make short work of the Rebels, except for Juliet. If the prince engaged her, Delta wouldn’t have to, and any battle between them would allow him to slip past.

  Preloaded with the map of the caves, he could use the squealer provided by the countess to control the hovers and drive the Elites and the prince into a head-on confrontation with the Rebels. He could sense the Rebels ahead of them as he caught up to the group at a sizable cliff face. Once he reached the maze above, it would be time to slip away from the group and make for the key using an alternate tunnel. It was merely a matter of directing these men using the hovers.

  At the cliff face, the Elites pulled out drill reels, firing them at the rock ceiling far above revealed by the hovers. As the heads of the projectiles struck home and dug into the rock, they attached handles to the wires and began their ascent.

  “You don’t get much exercise, do you?” the prince remarked with a note of contempt as his men rapidly scaled the cliff.

  For the first time, Delta recognized the sound of his breath wheezing through his ruined throat for what it was, as he skimmed the prince. He means to kill me now. The thought hovered at the forefront of the prince’s mind. It’s time to act, he thought.

  With great care, Delta formed the image in his mind, his own thin form, dressed in white and gold cloth, wheezing at the punishing pace and stooped over, nodding his head in agreement. He projected it into the minds of those surrounding him. There was little resistance to the image and once accepted, Delta stepped back into the shadows created by the single hover that stayed keyed to him, careful his feet made no noise, and taking deep breaths through his nose to calm his wheezing.

  The prince continued to look where the image was before glancing at his men as the last few of them ascended the cables. “Well, I can’t say it’s been a pleasure, Mr. Delta, and time is short if I am to secure the key.” One hand flashed bright with flame swirling around it. “Any last words? Just a wheeze, perhaps?”

  Delta made his simulacrum flinch back from the prince and turn as if to flee. With a gesture, the prince sent his flame to engulf the image.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Delta,” the prince said over his shoulder, grabbing hold of one of the ascending lines and whizzing up the short cliff.

  Delta waited until the prince and his men were out of sight before securing one of the abandoned wires and ascending himself. When he reached the top of the cliff with his single hover, he took out the squealer’s display, keyed in the course adjustment necessary to have the Rebels and the Elites meet head on, and sent the command to the hovers.

  Be a good distraction, Prince Al Aziri. I don’t want to face my sister. Tightening his mental shield, Delta released his squealer. He started to run again, trailing the two small devices as they led him down the alternate path, directly to the key.

  Philippe’s ghillie suit was designed like all of them to break up his outline and keep him hidden. His had additional bells and whistles, including extra padding on the joints and a good bit of heavy netting coupled with a lot of extra flayed fabric around his head and shoulders. He knew that had the unfortunate effect of making him look like a British sheepdog.

  Philippe lamented over the fact that the benefits of not being seen also came with several other drawbacks that weren’t merely aesthetic. He also panted like a sheepdog after moving his hump as fast as he could through the snowy conditions to avoid the death rays raining from above.

  Searching for where Sacks had landed as they tumbled down the hill, he remembered a phrase a fellow soldier shared with him down in North Carolina. We really do look like a bunch of yetis running around.

  Philippe had no idea of the status of Fox Squad, but he knew he and Sacks weren’t the only survivors. Through the almost constant barrage of missiles and the answering, shrieking spheres of black destruction, he could pick out the occasional report of a Tac-50.

  The main ship moved, circling the small valley where the transport ship had landed, prowling about like a hungry be
ar. The two of them dived into the nearest snowbank, and for a nervous minute, Philippe struggled to catch his breath and not flinch as stray pieces of exploded ordnance fell like rain around them. They sizzled as they hit the snow. Between the movement of the ship and their initial retreat direction, one end of the massive ship was now directly above them.

  After the fifth ragged piece of metal struck the snow inches from his head and steamed its way into the snowbank, Philippe decided it was time to leave. He tapped Sacks on the shoulder and signaled towards a brush-filled gully that would hide their tracks as they moved away from the ship. Every scrap of cover they could use, they would. Sacks moved first, rolling sideways under a low pine tree before slithering out the backside of the bowl created by the canopy and down into the brush below in a leopard crawl. Philippe followed, but being larger, he found himself hung up on the branches as they snagged on his suit like grasping, skeletal hands. It took him a long moment to free himself, and he held his breath, waiting for the shaking of the tree to draw the attention of the giant craft overhead.

  When Philippe finally crawled into the gully, he found Sacks waiting and pulling guard. The Sikh pointed at his watch, and grinned with faux disapproval at Philippe’s technique. Sacks hissed at his superior, “You know, if I wanted to wait freezing my ass off, Phil, I’d go pine for a woman in Ottawa. At least then I’d get laid afterwards.” Leve shushed his partner with a stern look and they carefully picked their way down the gully.

  As the two made their way further from underneath the vast ship that hung in the sky above them, they encountered a section of ground scraped clear of snow and vegetation. Several trees were broken in half, a straight line through the landscape, and it was the obvious geographic skid mark of the transport they’d downed.

  Sacks grinned at the trail, pointing to where a thin column of gray smoke rose amidst a large clump of pine trees to the north of their position. “Shall we take a look?” he whispered.

  Philippe raised his rifle, making a careful assessment through the scope. Apparently, the transport had an ejection pod for the pilot. A section of the transport gaped open, presumably where the pilot sat, and a metal and glass canopy dangled from the tree tops. No sign of the pilot. However, he spotted one thing that grabbed his attention now they were closer to the craft. Nestled against the sides and tucked under the wing was some kind of weapon.

  “There might be something better. Take a look at that, just under the wing mount.”

  It was roughly the same size as the long guns they toted around. A glance was enough to know it was a weapon, sleek and deadly.

  “Oh I know what I want for Christmas,” Sacks hummed through his scope.

  Philippe couldn’t help but grin. “Well you told me once you could shoot anything. Let’s go get it. See if they like their own brand of medicine.”

  The two men picked their way with deliberate care across the scarred ground until they were sure the intervening vegetation covered them. The last thing they needed was to be spotted by the ship lingering in the sky. As they closed the last of the ground at a run, Philippe kept his eyes peeled for any sign of the transport’s crew. A fresh missile slamming into the ship above reminded him to be wary of falling shrapnel as well. The massive ship answered the latest explosions with screaming black and silver energy.

  Reaching the downed vessel, they crouched and peered in through a side window. The interior was a shambles. Wires sparked and hung from the ceiling above several rows of wide seats with retention harnesses, clearly designed for men in combat armor. Inside the vessel was a corpse, twisted into a last grim mockery of life, one arm torn away at the shoulder.

  “Hello baby. I’m Sacks. It’s nice to meet you,” the Sikh sniper said, gazing at the six-foot-long weapon. “What the hell? Is that … is that German?” Sacks was pointing to some writing and helpful diagrams near the gun mount.

  Zum abmontieren der Shinkari-Kanone lösen Sie die Haltebolzen und schieben Sie die Waffe in einer Vorwärtsbewegung von der Montageplatte herunter.

  “Sacks. This is a gun mount. Look, it’s a pintle,” Philippe stated as Sacks fondled the weapon and tested the bolts with gloved hands.

  “Yeah, but I think I can unmount it,” the smaller man answered, with gun lust in his dark brown eyes.

  “Sacks. I mean, this thing is meant to be mounted on a vehicle. It’s not supposed to come off and then be shot.” Sacks stopped and simply glared at Philippe with a frown of disappointment. He sighed, and with his head hung low, the ghillie suit fell down around his face like scraggly dreadlocks.

  “Just had to steal my thunder, didn’t you?” Sacks groaned. Stopping and looking from the weapon to the cockpit, a wicked smile crossed his features. Philippe followed Sack’s glance over his shoulder to see the ship overhead drifting towards the front of the downed transport. Roughly in line with where the weapon was already pointing. “But vehicle weapons have controls. And they might still work.”

  Philippe gawked for the briefest of moments before trailing Sacks into the wreckage of the small ship. Inexplicably, there was no sign of fuel anywhere: no drips, no obvious fuel tanks, and no smell of petroleum.

  Cutting the harness from what they presumed was the dead pilot, they picked him up and saw some kind of sigil on the chest. A compass rose marked the major compass points like sharp knives just over the heart. He was Caucasian in appearance and similar in age to them.

  As they were about to toss him outside, Philippe spotted a small holster on his hip. “Woah. Hang on.” The compact weapon was similar in size to his own sidearm. It was surprisingly light when he removed the weapon from its leather holster; half the weight of his own handgun. It had intake vents at the back of the gun in place of a hammer and a narrow handle.

  Sacks’s pupils dilated at the sight and Philippe handed it over. “Don’t shoot yourself in the foot, Sacks. I can’t see a safety.” Sacks carefully stowed the weapon before they dumped the body into the melting snow and returned to analyze the controls.

  “Oh you sodding Nazi bastards!” Philippe exclaimed as he studied the controls and dials all labelled in the same language as the outside weapon mount. He brushed a ghillie tendril away as he leaned into the cockpit. There were plenty of lights blinking and a variety of glowing dials indicating that the vehicle still had power.

  Drawing upon the information he’d picked up from pilots over the years, Philippe scanned the cockpit. Nestled in front of the remaining bloodstained chair was what looked like the same control stick used in a Blackhawk. It even had a red trigger guard, which on a military chopper was for side-mounted missiles and other ordnance. There was only one big red button … nothing else. It can’t be that simple can it?

  He touched the control stick with a hesitant finger and recoiled as a holographic wireframe grid spun into being before dissolving as he released it. “Cool,” he grinned at Sacks. In the corner of his peripheral vision, he saw movement as Sacks pushed him out of the way, landing him in the pilot chair.

  A screaming black bolt aimed at his head instead struck Sacks in the shoulder. There was a horrible sucking sound as the bolt tore a section of flesh from Sacks’s upper arm a millisecond before it exploded, flinging him viciously backwards.

  As Philippe’s hand grabbed at the control stick, the holographic display spun into being and he heard the side-mounted gun swivel. The blue-uniformed man attempted to dive to the side as Philippe pressed the trigger. He felt vibration through the listing vehicle as the weapon discharged, sending a football-sized black and silver projectile towards the uniformed man, striking him in the chest. Philippe blanched as the whole front of the man was torn into a bloody mess moments before the explosion spread a cloud of red mist mixed with shreds of blue uniform and gore in all directions.

  The explosion was so close he could barely hear anything. “Sacks, are you still alive?” he yelled, scanning the ground for any more blue-uniformed men. “Sacks!”

  “Hakuna your tatas, Phil. Just shoot the d
amned ship already.” His voice sounded muffled, but Philippe couldn’t be sure if that was the deafening effects of the explosion or something else. He looked up at the looming ship above him and remembered what happened in Rio when that flaming bastard hit the big disco ball of death. Sighting the ship cannon, the wireframe map showed a red zone, and he waited anxiously for the several seconds till the movement of the ship brought the main gun into the green.

  Phil searched for something to say as he pressed the trigger, something that would express how the world was feeling about these invaders. But he couldn’t do it. C’mon, work. You have to work.

  “The countess is coming around now Sire,” the voice of the ship’s doctor relayed through the control room speakers. Heinrich was examining the holographic map and pondered where the remaining snipers were hiding in the frigid landscape. “She’s responding well to the regenerative. I recommend she not pilot a drone for at least three weeks. Otherwise, she risks damaging herself even more.”

  “Thank you Doctor Cross. Send her up to the bridge when she’s ready.” Heinrich flicked off the communicator and considered the sniper teams. Their bullets didn’t penetrate the shields, but as the transport ship demonstrated, their weapons were effective against unshielded targets. He couldn’t risk lowering the shields again to send out the remaining attack craft or drones until he was sure that he’d killed them all.

  These snipers were highly trained. Missiles continued to streak in and slam against the ship’s shield from out of range of the main guns, although less frequently now that the ship had razed every ridge in the surrounding topography. It seemed at least some of the missiles required that laser marking. The military forces kept their distance and shot from range. But with no energy-based weapons, their efforts couldn’t penetrate the shields.

  The sustained pummeling of their shields put a noticeable dent in their energy reserves, but once Delta acquired the key it wouldn’t matter. The mere presence of a world key would recharge the ship’s battery systems. They could then run shields continuously at full power and collect the other keys at their leisure before returning to their own timeline.