“They kept the Damise imprisoned for centuries under the Agantzane’s direction.”
“Right,” Quinn mused.
“The Mexicans are already on the march. I've ordered my Tennesseans to join the garrison defending the north wall. We should get going.”
She turned and began running for the north wall, her coonskin hat’s tail bouncing from side to side. After a moment, he chased after her.
~
Keeping his head low, Quinn scuttled across the catwalk and joined Keiza as she crouched behind an abutment on the mission’s crumbling north wall.
Strung across the catwalk and heavy-eyed from lack of sleep were tradesmen and ranchers, Anglos, Tejanos, and slaves, mixed in with New Orleans Greys and Crockett’s Tennesseans with their long mountain rifles. They looked like rejects from half a dozen different armies.
Can you die here? Keiza had described this as a re-creation, suggesting none of it was real, but the events they were playing out mirrored what was happening in the real world. In both the Hightower’s Justice scenario and the circus re-creation, her sense of urgency had been genuine. If he took a bullet from a Mexican rifle, would that correspond to an injury in the real world? He decided he’d rather not find out.
A buckskin-clad Tennessean negotiated the rough wooden parapet and dropped down beside them. His tanned leather face cracked. “Greetin’s, Colonel. Them Mexicanos is linin’ up t’ attack again. Reckon we’ll be sendin’ a bunch more of ’em t’ unction.”
“Send some men to barricade the postern gate,” Keiza replied. “And tell everyone to look sharp. Make every shot count. We can’t afford to waste ammunition.”
Like Quinn, she spoke in an Earth-colonial accent with a slight Irish lilt, but the Tennessean either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Yessiree.” With the sure-footedness of a mountain goat, he picked his way back to his post.
She stared out across the flat desert scrub. “General Amador intends to break through the postern. Preventing him should help delay the Mexicans’ invasion of the compound.”
Quinn screwed up his face and pulled his jacket tighter against the needling cold. “I don’t get it. You say this is all drawn from my mind, but I don’t recall this level of detail. I certainly don’t remember the ins and outs of the battle.”
“You speak of conscious memory, Quinn. The sentient mind works on a deeper level.”
“You mean the subconscious.”
“Yes. Your subconscious retains details of your past experiences.”
“Including facts I may have heard or read about the Alamo but forgotten.”
She searched his face. “You should know that, just as with the Mexicans, the Damise will give no quarter. They will capture the dolin. You and your son will be expendable, as will I.”
The music fell silent. She turned back to the desert, and Quinn followed her gaze. The eastern skyline reddened with the first stain of dawn. A bugle cut the gelid air. From the northwest, a column marched towards them, single-breasted blue coats decorated with red piping. A canon roared, spitting fire, and clouds of smoke obscured the column.
Her voice sounded small. “It’s begun.”
~
Quinn sat with his back to the abutment, eyelids clenched shut, fingers clutching his double-barrelled shotgun while the cacophony of battle sounded all around him. This is crazy. I’m not a soldier. I can’t do this.
Someone shook his shoulder. He cracked an eye open and saw Keiza staring down at him.
Her lips were a thin red line. “We must hold them off. Your son is depending on you.”
Grinding his teeth, he loaded and primed the weapon. Just as with horse riding, the knowledge seemed to have been preprogrammed in him for this scenario. He peeked over the abutment. The Mexicans were almost at the wall. Their column had broken apart. Shattered groups of soldiers fired ragged volleys at the defenders. He levelled the shotgun and squeezed the trigger. It slammed into his shoulder, knocking him onto his rump. Apparently, knowledge did not equate with skill.
Keiza loaded her rifle, offering him a look of disdain before firing at the attackers.
Shot rattled against the wall. A defender in farmer’s fatigues toppled backwards and fell from the catwalk.
“When are the reinforcements supposed to get here?” he yelled.
“I don’t know,” she replied.
“You’re supposed to be in charge of this re-creation. Can’t you… I don’t know… hurry them up a bit?”
She loaded fresh shot and ramrodded the barrel. “Doesn’t work that way. The Texian reinforcements are the Shanata. Our reinforcements will arrive when they do.”
“And if they don’t get here in time?”
She ignored him and took aim once more.
He swallowed and began loading another charge. Somehow, these antique weapons represented the Elinare’s method of resisting the Damise. Keiza was right. Conor’s life was on the line as well as his. The Mexican soldiers might be phantoms, but the Damise they stood for were very real. He had to try and play his part.
He leaned the shotgun over the abutment. The Mexicans had begun to scale the crumbling wall, driving fingers into cracks and kicking footholds in the limestone. He fired. A soldier jerked his head back, lost his footing, and fell. Quinn pulled back to reload, breath fogging in the cold.
The defenders’ ranks thinned, and their movements grew increasingly desperate. A shako hat with a tri-colour plume topped the wall. One of the Greys rushed to repel the invader. Two more Mexicans dropped to the catwalk. A Tennessean ululated and rushed them.
“Bayonets!” Keiza cried.
Clashing blades mixed with cries and grunts as Texians and Mexicans went hand-to-hand on the catwalk. Quinn set the shotgun aside and fumbled at his sword’s hilt with numb fingers.
A pair of Mexican infantrymen advanced towards them. Keiza stepped in front of Quinn and brandished a long hunting knife. He flushed at the thought of being defended by a woman, and then reminded himself she wasn’t a woman or even human.
The lead soldier bared his teeth and jabbed his bayonet at Keiza. She knocked it aside and then lunged at him. He twisted to avoid the thrust and then swung at her head. She caught the rifle barrel, he grabbed her wrist, and they strained against one another in a contest of strength and will.
The second soldier lowered his bayonet and tried to squeeze past them on the narrow catwalk. Quinn roused himself, drew his sword, and then wavered. If he attacked and the combatants shifted position, he might strike Keiza by mistake.
The lead soldier dug his thumb into Keiza’s wrist. With a strangled cry, she released her grip on the hunting knife. It bounced on the catwalk and fell to the compound below, where more Mexicans were grappling with defenders, driving them back towards the chapel.
Keiza’s assailant shoved her back, twisted his rifle from her grasp, and then shoved the bayonet into her upper body. She crumpled and then vanished.
~
Gripped by a red mist, Quinn slashed at the two soldiers before him and sent them crashing from the catwalk.
The compound was littered with bodies. His chest heaved, whether from his exertions in this re-creation or the failing oxygen in the cargo bay, he couldn’t tell. He cast about, wild-eyed. Keiza’s dead. What the hell am I supposed to do now? Reason reasserted itself in the form of a question. If she’s dead, then how come this reenactment is still running?
He couldn’t see what was happening at the south wall, but if Keiza was right, then the defenders there would be turning the 18-pounder to face north. Either way, the mission was lost.
Quinn. The voice sounding in his head was not his own.
Keiza? Keiza, is that you?
Quinn, you have to hold out a little longer.
Quinn’s relief was tempered by the reality of his situation. You’re out of your mind! This place is being overrun. We’re finished!
Silence. Terrific! He planted his feet and resolved to give his life dearly.
&nbs
p; Quinn.
He sighed. What is it now?
The voice in his head sounded stronger. James Bowie is here.
~
Quinn scoured the catwalk and the compound below but could see no one resembling the legendary Jim Bowie. He was on the point of giving up when a swirl of black smoke, too regular to be weapons fire, caught his eye. Could it be…
The smoke expanded to a vortex, and a black-skinned, axe-headed creature stepped from it. Joy kicked Quinn’s heart into overdrive. Zothan! How on earth…
Gone was the Nemazi’s loose mesh garment. Instead, his matchstick frame was draped in a brown wool coat, and he gripped a curved blade—the Bowie knife for which his namesake was renowned. Quinn heard a low thump and a splintering of wood. The postern shattered. Tossing the weapon aside, Zothan faced the Mexican troops now pouring into the compound. They advanced on him, oblivious to his inhuman appearance.
Zothan’s claws scythed, and their forward line exploded in a red fountain. As he stepped through crumpled corpses, the soldiers behind wavered and then started forward again, flanking him from both sides.
He can’t fight them all. Quinn’s heart sank. His limbs felt like lumps of plasticine.
From somewhere beyond the wall, a bugle sounded. Like an ebbing tide, the soldiers backed away and filed through the gap in the wall.
Retreat… they’ve sounded the retreat… but why? A far-off boom of canon fire answered his unspoken query. The reinforcements… they’re here.
Quinn sank to his knees. The catwalk pitched sideways, and everything went dark.
Part Five: The Trap
Quinn woke to the sound of his own raucous breathing. A clear plastic mask covered his nose and mouth. The gurney he lay on was being bumped and manhandled like last week’s trash. Brightness dazzled his eyes. Someone yelled at him. The voice was female, but he couldn’t make out the words.
His vision cleared. The mission and its scene of carnage were gone. Strip lights slipped by overhead. He was being pulled along a corridor. Did we win? His mouth framed the words, but no sound emerged. Exhausted, he drifted off.
Dancing lights jostled him to wakefulness before a dark opening swallowed him whole. He heard more voices and felt a sudden jolt of acceleration.
An anemone-like creature bent over him. Its supple tentacles removed his mask. “You may breathe normally.” The high-pitched voice came from where the Osei’s head ought to have been. Its skin was mottled yellow and slick like a seal’s.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“Aboard a breaching pod,” the Osei replied, business-like. “We have disengaged from the Damise vessel and are returning to our ship.”
“You’re… a medical adept?”
“What else would I be?”
“Where’s my son?”
“We recovered you and one Harani female.”
Quinn raised himself by the elbows. “He was inside the dolin.”
“Indeed.” Distracted, the Osei wound its tentacles around a glowing fibre optic bush.
“We have to go back for him.”
“That is impossible.”
Quinn scrabbled for an angle. “What about the dolin? If the Damise gain control of it—”
“Their ship is crippled. They have nowhere to go.”
“Where’s Grey?” Quinn closed his eyes. “Grey” was a private appellation Quinn had assigned to the Osei he had befriended. This individual would have no idea who he meant. “Where’s the engineering adept?”
“Engineering.”
“I want to speak to him.”
“You are. All Osei share in the Unity.”
Quinn took a deep breath. “Remember when the AI was taking over your ships at Korradan? I could’ve left you languishing in that cell on the Shanata ship, but I didn’t. I could’ve let the AI absorb your Unity, but I didn’t. Conor is… is a part of my Unity. I can’t… I won’t leave him behind.”
Silence dragged. Then the Osei replied. “Very well.”
A background hum became a plaintive whine.
“We’re off course. What’s happening?” a female voice demanded.
“The Unity must fulfil its obligation,” the Osei replied.
Quinn pushed off the gurney. Within the pod’s oval interior were four Shanata as well as the Osei. One of the Shanata removed her face mask, and Quinn recognised Rahada, whose sister had been sacrificed so that the fleet could escape the Pann system.
She skewered him with a look. “This is your doing.”
“I have to rescue my son.” He steeled himself. You of all people should understand.
“The Shanata risked their lives to rescue you. You would spit on their sacrifice?”
“I have no choice.”
Her gaze ripped away like sticking plaster torn from an open wound. “Status of Damise vessel!”
A masked Shanata at the forward controls replied. “Drive inoperative. Weapons systems not charged. Power operating at very low levels. However…”
“What?” Rahada snapped.
“They have restored life support, although I am not sure how.”
“That means he’s still alive,” Quinn said.
Rahada shook her head. “The Damise will likely have expired him. You will only be adding your death to his.”
“You can stay here. I’ll go in alone.”
“You turned back the AI. You are our only hope. If I cannot dissuade you, then I must accompany you.”
“Butch and Sundance, eh?” Quinn smiled. “Never mind.”
The dolin was an Agantzane construct, built as a weapon and designed to be all but indestructible. Ximun had programmed it to preserve Quinn and Conor during the descent through Pann’s levels. The thought of being beholden to Ximun made gall rise in Quinn’s throat, but if it meant Conor’s life…
“Message from control,” the Shanata at the console said. “They are instructing us to stand clear of the Damise ship.”
“Why?” Rahada demanded.
“Unknown.”
She crossed to his position and stood at his shoulder. “Signal them.”
He shook his head. “No response. They’ve opened up forward batteries.”
“Visual!”
An oval patch of light showed a multi-sectioned vessel like a string of rail cars. A pair of spinning stars flashed past and impacted the vessel’s midsection. It broke apart in a series of silent explosions.
Quinn stared open-mouthed at the crimson flowers dying in the dark. Conor…
~
Quinn shoved Rahada against the bulkhead. One hand held her shoulder, and the other gripped her throat. Belatedly, he remembered his Agantzane death touch. Without her high collar, she would have been dead. He bared his teeth. “My son… you just murdered my son!”
A pair of Shanata advanced on them, but she repelled them with a slight shake of her head. She stared back at Quinn. Her pupils were unwavering black points. “I did no such thing.”
Reason penetrated his madness like a distant scream. Why agree to help him rescue Conor and then destroy the Damise’s ship? His grasp around her throat relaxed. “What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Rahada.” The voice came from the Shanata hunched over the forward console.
She turned her head within Quinn’s grip. “What’s the matter?”
“Something in the debris… an energy source.”
Quinn’s hand dropped from her throat as he stared at the vessel’s glowing fragments.
“Magnification!” She ordered. The scene shifted, and the fragments grew larger. She squinted. “Where is it?”
“It’s out there,” the operator said. “A field of some kind. Instruments can’t penetrate it.”
Her eyes widened. “It’s a Damise trick! Bring us about—maximum thrust!”
The air shimmered, and a small silver sphere materialised in the centre of the cabin. Vil-gar appeared beneath it. His mouth quirked. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Certainly. It’s a time dilation field—a bubble in space-time.”
Quinn’s rush of relief at the appearance of a familiar face was swamped by concern for Conor. “Keiza—the Elinare. She said something about the Damise trying to encompass the dolin in a time dilation field.”
“Are you saying time is moving slower in there?” Rahada asked.
“Or faster,” Vil-gar said. “Though slower is much more likely.”
“Why?”
“Because, as Quinn says, it was meant as a trap. However, the result may turn out to have been serendipitous. Can you bring us in closer?”
She stared at Vil-gar as if weighing his sanity and then signalled the operator.
Vil-gar waddled over to him. “Scan the phenomenon. Check for infrared radiation and oxygen leakage.”
A smaller light patch appeared in midair, displaying a mass of flowing symbols. Vil-gar pored over them, his mouth working soundlessly. “Time is indeed moving more slowly within the bubble, but in the order of only fifteen times. The Damise had only partially completed the trap when their ship was destroyed.”
“What’s inside?” Rahada demanded.
“The dolin, I would surmise.”
“Conor was sheltering inside it,” Quinn said.
“Indeed?” Vil-gar said. “Then it’s entirely possible he may have survived the explosion. However, if he is still alive, he won’t be for long.”
“Why not?” Quinn asked.
“When the Damise ship exploded, it became exposed to space. The time dilation field will have slowed down the effects on anything contained within the field, but it’s radiating heat and losing oxygen.”
“How long?”
“You mean how long before biological life becomes unsustainable? A little less than thirty minutes by human measurement.”
Quinn whirled on Rahada. “We’ve got to get in there.”
The Arc of the Universe Page 17