Pass of Fire

by Taylor Anderson

  Even after the plane banked sharply to port, the signal they were turning into the target area, more rockets kept flashing skyward. “They’re still shootin’,” Silva shouted at Lawrence, catching his first glimpse of Old Sofesshk below. Quite a few fires were still burning, the result of the raid that preceded them. “That’s prob’ly why,” he continued, pointing. “Either they’re too fixed on keepin’ us from hittin’ their holy city again, or they’re mad enough they don’t give a shit if they rain a little shrapnel on it.”

  A rocket exploded nearby and he either felt the overpressure or something hit the plane. “Now!” shouted the Lemurian copilot in that penetrating way ’Cats had. Silva turned to grab Lawrence as he’d asked, but his friend was already gone. A ’Cat instantly bolted after him without giving Silva the chance to check if his left hand was clutching his ripcord. “Jump free, count to three, jump free, count to three,” he shouted as each ’Cat went by. He had to grab one’s shaking hand and slap it against the ripcord handle, but didn’t have to throw anyone out. In barely a minute he was the last, and with a final look around, he shook his head. “Shit,” he said, “that damn Larry still has my Doom Stomper!” Grasping the wooden T handle on his own ripcord, he jumped.

  The trip down was actually sort of fun, once the big white parachute opened. Well, after he was nearly jerked apart, that is. He’d been so busy worrying about the others, he’d forgotten to tighten his Thompson sling, and everything else seemed to have come a little loose as well. It all wanted to keep falling after the chute brought him up short. He cursed. After that, though, there wasn’t much to do but look around. He’d studied the aerial pictures of Old Sofesshk as well as he could, but the fires and all the rocket glares made a hash of his sense of direction. It was kind of pretty, though. Other chutes were drifting down around him, reflecting the fires and flashes. He thought he caught a quick glimpse of the cowflop palace in the distance, lit by another rocket, but something made him glance down. “Shit!”

  He’d momentarily forgotten how low they’d dropped, and this wasn’t a sightseeing trip. Inordinately pleased he wasn’t about to land in the water—or a fire—he just had time to prepare to . . . Crash! The ground had been closer than it looked. In fact, he didn’t hit the ground at all, but a roof covered with strangely shaped ceramic tiles. Fortunately, the structure beneath—he got the impression of ancient, musty straw and light timbers as it all joined his descent—wasn’t all that substantial. He landed on his ass in the dark on what felt like more tile, and shrugged out of his chute as quickly as he could untangle the debris. In that moment, unable to bring any weapon to bear, he felt extremely uncomfortable. Nothing lunged at him, however, and he finally stood, Thompson in one hand, Zippo in the other. He flipped the lighter open and spun the wheel.

  That’s when the Grik came at him. There were three, and they’d all been clustered together by a wall. Maybe they thought I was a bomb, Silva thought as he swung the Thompson, flipped the safety off, and squeezed the trigger. Downy fur exploded amid the ear-numbing Braaaap! of a long, corkscrewing burst, and blood sprayed him in the face. One Grik actually slammed into him and he spun away, expecting the slash of teeth or claws, but it merely tumbled to the floor, already dead. One was writhing, shrieking, the sound incredibly loud in the close quarters. He put the muzzle of the Thompson near its head and fired the last two shots in the twenty-round magazine.

  Somehow, he still held the flickering Zippo. “That was a neat trick,” he murmured, stooping to inspect the closest corpse. “Damn, look like civvy lizards, dressed fancier than I ever seen,” he thought aloud, quickly examining the others. They all wore robes of some sort, the color indefinite in the gloom, but of a finer material than even the Hij of Grik City had possessed. “Sure weren’t warriors—no swords or nothin’, not that it matters. They’re born with more weapons than any honest critter.”

  He straightened and swiftly circled the chamber, the lighter getting hot in his hand, and found a low, narrow wooden door. There was no latch, just a leather thong with a hole in it looped over a peg. Clapping the Zippo shut, he stuffed it in his pocket, inserted another magazine in his Thompson, then lifted the thong and eased the door open. A rifle bullet struck the doorjamb and blew splinters at him.

  “Hey, goddammit!” he shouted. “Hold yer fire!” He wasn’t so deaf that he couldn’t tell the crack of an Allin-Silva from the boom of a Grik musket. When no more shots were forthcoming, he stepped slowly outside, squinting in the direction the shot came from. Five forms were trotting toward him, and he almost killed them. They looked like Grik. Only when the flare and flash of a rocket washed the scene in light did he realize they were Khonashi, wearing white bandannas to distinguish them from the enemy. “Watch who yer shootin’ at from now on, you fuzzy little geela monsters!”

  “Chee Sil’a?” came a questioning, startled voice.

  “Pokey?” Silva replied, equally surprised. “Is that you?” Pokey was a real Grik, taken long ago, who’d somehow survived what they’d always believed was the captured warrior’s imperative toward self-destruction. Almost all those early prisoners just . . . died. A few, caught after wandering around alone for a while, seemed able to function, even cooperate, but Pokey and some others practically volunteered when given a choice. Looking back on it, especially after recent experiences, his behavior made sense. He’d been confined for a time of course, but in his mind he wasn’t a captive; he’d joined the Hunt of the Allies.

  Silva hadn’t been much impressed by Pokey’s intelligence during their first association, and the little Grik had just been a bearer and brass picker on the expedition across Borno where they met and befriended the Grik-like—and human—Khonashi. Pokey stayed with them. And every time Silva saw him, Pokey seemed a little sharper.

  “Sergeant Koky,” the Grik stressed, substituting a k for the p he couldn’t form.

  “Yeah, whatever.” Silva gestured at the four Khonashi. “This all you could round up?”

  “As yet.” Pokey’s eyes narrowed. “’Ore than you.”

  “Yeah, well, I had a little chat with some locals.” He cocked his head. The rockets had stopped and the drone of engines was fading, but the crackle of rifles and stutter of Blitzerbug SMGs was starting to rise. A small group of ’Cats scampered out of an alley not far away, firing behind them and taking cover. “Let’s go get with them.”

  They joined the ’Cats just as about a dozen Grik warriors rushed into the open. A fusillade of rifle and SMG bullets mowed them down before they could even fire.

  “Break their muskets, then let’s go,” ordered a ’Cat who then turned to Silva. “I’m glaad to see you,” he confessed.

  “Me too, Chackie,” Silva replied without a hint of sarcasm or irony. He waved around. “What a goose pull. We’re scattered everywhere!”

  “We expected thaat,” Chack agreed, blinking regret. Then he nodded to the west. “At least we haave an obvious raally point.” Silva followed his gaze. From here he could clearly see the Palace of Vanished Gods, illuminated by a growing fire in the city around it. As he’d suspected from the glimpse he got, it looked about three miles away. “Not much resist-aance so faar,” Chack continued as his troops and the Khonashi swung the Grik muskets down hard against the baked brick pavement and shattered their stocks. “The enemy is prob-aably as scaattered as we are, keeping order in the city.” He paused. “Though there seem to be few civilian Hij to control. I hope they haaven’t taken their Celestial Mother away aafter all.”

  “Yeah.” Silva knew if that was the case, they were probably all as good as dead. “There’s some civvies here—or there was,” he amended. “The ones I came across decided to join the fight.”

  Chack nodded, needing no details. “As maay others, once they determine our objective.” All the Grik muskets had been rendered useless. “Which lies thaat way.” He pointed. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 16

  //////
Palace of Vanished Gods

  Old Sofesshk

  Grik Africa

  The Celestial Mother stood on the smooth paving stones at the entrance to the Palace of Vanished Gods and stared out, uncomprehending, at the glowing fires scattered throughout Old Sofesshk. Never had the prey dared target the ancient city itself, and First General Esshk and the Chooser had sworn they never would. A few errant bombs must be expected from time to time, the Chooser had soothed, blaming the wind. But not even this prey, their “enemy” (the Celestial Mother still had trouble understanding a distinction General Esshk and the Chooser now seemed to take for granted), could ever be mad enough to rain destruction on a place so important to the Vanished Gods, where they must know she herself resided. Yet that was clearly what they’d done that night. As far as she could tell, not a single bomb had fallen across the river, or even upriver, where the bulk of their nearby industries still lingered. A dozen or more of the huge flying machines had deliberately, maliciously, dropped their entire loads on the very heart of Gharrichk’k civilization—on her!—and at least one bomb, perhaps more, actually struck the palace itself! There’d been no damage—the dark granite of the prehistoric structure was proof against everything but age and the elements—but that was beside the point.

  The rest of the city was not so invulnerable and sections, all older than any living memory and some possibly ancient enough to have been inhabited by the Vanished Gods themselves, crumbled under blistering pyres. The Celestial Mother was overwrought with anguish.

  “Why? How could they do such a thing?” she demanded aloud, her voice small.

  “I cannot say,” replied her Senior Sister. “I beg you,” she added hastily, “return to the safety of the palace at once. This wicked prey showed long ago they were capable of unthinkable acts when they slew she who gave life to us all. Now this. There seems no limit to their capacity for evil.” She hesitated. “Come inside. We can’t protect you from fire bursts that fall blindly from the sky. If you die without issue . . . If we all fall, the bloodline of the Gods will be extinguished forever.”

  “There is no danger,” the Celestial Mother countered more harshly than usual. “Not to me,” she stressed, “or us. Not now. The flying machines have gone.” She paused. “And I must view—and think about—this thing my champion and chief advisor promised could never happen.”

  “As you wish,” the Senior Sister conceded.

  For some time they merely stood, watching the flames slowly diminish and breathing the faint smoke that lingered near the ground. Fortunately, unlike New Sofesshk across the river, largely built of mud dried on frameworks of wood and woven prairie grass, only the roofs of the older city were backed by flammable material, and it was protected by tile. Unless the breeze strengthened sharply, the fires shouldn’t spread. Still, the Celestial Mother imagined the reduced garrison would be hard-pressed to fight them. And what about the Hij population? she wondered. It had inexplicably diminished as well. Esshk told her most had gone to directly supervise the various industries they were responsible for, but that struck her as absurd, even at the time. They may have been like regents for those endeavors, but few actually knew anything about them. Now that Old Sofesshk had been bombed, contrary to everything she’d been assured with such certainty, she wondered again what became of the Hij in the city.

  A bright arc of fire flashed skyward from downriver, followed by another, then a small cluster clawed upward, diverging as they flew. She quickly recognized them as the rockets used against enemy flying machines. But why use them now, after the bombers have gone?

  “Giver of Life,” her Senior Sister urged. “We must go inside! The prey returns with more fire bursts.”

  The Celestial Mother hesitated, finally hearing the telltale drone of engines. It must be true, yet she wanted to see, to remember. Regent Champion or not, First General Esshk would have a lot to answer for. “Just under the archway, then,” she agreed. “We’ll be safe enough there unless a bomb strikes right on us. If such ill chance befalls us, it must be a sign it’s time for our bloodline to end.”

  The guards ushered her back, reluctantly allowing her to view the bombing. Whereas they’d been astonished before when the bombs fell, they were now equally amazed when the flying machines just seemed to circle for a time and no explosions shook the ground. Explosions lit the sky, however, as rockets reached the height they were fused for, and there was danger they might be struck by falling fragments, but the big machines seemed to do nothing harmful. The Celestial Mother, slowly easing out from under the arch with her sisters to gain a better view, was perplexed.

  The rockets tapered off, someone probably realizing they were firing over the city, but one final burst silhouetted dozens, hundreds, of what looked like big white balls floating slowly down.

  “What can it mean?” asked one of the sisters who shouldn’t have said anything unsolicited. The Senior Sister was so distracted she didn’t admonish her.

  “I don’t know,” replied the Celestial Mother, equally diverted. “Those can’t be bombs . . . Can they? Surely they’re much too large. And the flash above shone through them. Nothing so insubstantial can be harmful . . . Can it?”

  A carriage clattered toward them on the baked brick road by the river, drawn by forty warriors at the run. It practically skidded to a halt nearby on the slicker paving stones around the palace. The door swung open and the Chooser’s short, paunchy form hopped to the ground and waddled toward them at what, for him, was a sprint. Gasping, he flung himself down at the Celestial Mother’s feet.

  “I’m here to fetch you, Giver of Life!” the Chooser cried urgently, squirming like an alligator nailed to the ground with a spear.

  “Do get up, Lord Chooser,” the Celestial Mother commanded. “And what’s the meaning of this? How came you to be so near? I thought you were with General Esshk at Lake Galk.” Her coppery eyes narrowed. “And you do not fetch me like a stick of wood for a cookfire! Particularly not as I watch all your promises wither in the flames of my city!”

  The Chooser stood, but it was clear he would’ve preferred to continue grinding himself into the paving stones.

  “I was here,” he replied, evading her question, “and well that I was. The world is undone!” he wailed. “The Other Hunter prey to the south has smashed past the force sent to stop it. Even now they rush north to join the enemy beyond the nakkle leg! In the absence of First General Esshk, I commanded Second General Ign to respond as he sees fit, yet I must assume all our enemies will soon drive northwest together, putting your holy person in jeopardy. I came to take you to safety!”

  In spite of the bombing, the Celestial Mother wasn’t that shaken. “Surely it can’t be as bad as you say. We still outnumber the prey by a very large margin, not so?”

  “That is so,” the Chooser agreed, “but . . .” He suddenly cocked his head to one side, his own eyes narrowing. Then they widened in horror. “There is shooting! In the city! Listen . . .”

  It was true. The Celestial Mother hadn’t heard the sound of small-arms fire since before her elevation, but like an unusual number of other things, she remembered.

  “The enemy is here!” the Chooser almost squealed. If he hadn’t kept his crest erect by artificial means, it would’ve lain flat against the top of his head. “I don’t know how, but they are. We must go at once!”

  “Can their warriors fall from the sky inside clear whitish balls?” the Celestial Mother asked herself as much at the Chooser.

  The Chooser was taken aback by what he must have thought was an utterly random, fanciful question. “What?”

  “Their flying machines circled above and dropped such things. That must be how they came!”

  The Chooser shook his head. “It doesn’t matter how they’re here, only that they are. We must flee.”

  “Never!” the Celestial mother snapped, sharp teeth clacking in her jaws. “We are Gharrichk’k! We
do not flee from prey.” Her voice hardened further as she raised it to the warriors pulling the carriage. “Use that to block the entrance to the palace.” The sound of firing was growing, mostly to the southeast. Some was fairly close. Grik warriors, other than the hundred or so always near, began arriving from the closer billets where they’d been stationed. Unsure what was happening but sensing a close threat to their Celestial Mother, they immediately began dragging carts and rail fencing up to add to a natural breastwork formed by the low wall surrounding the palace and the avenue of trees bordering the riverside road. No buildings stood closer than a couple of hundred yards or so, and they went about clearing the best killing ground they could.

  “But . . .” the Chooser chirped.

  “We’ll make our stand in the Palace of Vanished Gods,” the Celestial Mother decreed. “All our warriors must do is hold the one entrance. Nothing can harm us inside. Send runners with news of our predicament across the river and spread the word to First General Esshk and Second General Ign.” Her eyes narrowed again. “With so few Hij in the city, there are plenty of small boats along the docks”—she eyed the Chooser—“something else you might now better explain to me.” Abruptly, she turned back toward the archway, her cloak whirling behind her. “I expect General Esshk will relieve us as soon as he hears,” she called back over her shoulder. “He better.”

  “But . . .” the Chooser yipped once more.

  “Attend me, Lord Chooser,” the Celestial Mother commanded.

  Watching his warriors disperse into defensive positions while the gunfire in the city continued to mount and his carriage began moving to block the entrance under the archway, the Chooser could only obey.