by Arnot, C. S.
Aiden tried shutting his eyes, but the motion was even more terrifying like that and he had to open them again. He wished he could have just walked.
Gradually, though, the jolting motion of the car became less and less startling. Aiden found himself relaxing a little. When you shook off the sense of imminent and violent death, the ride almost became… enjoyable.
The dusty track joined a wide, tarmacked road that ran past the outskirts of Ashtarak. Its surface was pockmarked and worn, and the car had to skirt around the edge of a massive crater that almost severed the road completely.
There were ruins to either side of the road: the current town was only a fraction of its pre-war size, its population tiny in comparison. The scale of the destruction was appalling. Why had the powers fought here? What was to be gained?
Aiden suddenly, inexplicably, felt ashamed. Was it for the part the West had played in ruining this country? He didn’t think so. He’d had nothing to do with it. Even his people had bitterly resisted joining the Union, so he’d been told. No, Aiden was sure he was ashamed for a different reason.
However accidentally it had been, he had exposed these innocent people to the dangerous attentions of the Gilgamesh. He had to put it right.
The car rounded a bend in the road. Up ahead, in a small paddock by the roadside sat a chunky aircraft with the ominously familiar markings of the Gilgamesh. A pair of marines was standing by the road, turned to face the oncoming vehicle. Aiden shrank back into his seat. He tightened the rag on his face and pulled the pistol from his belt, keeping it low between his legs. Here we go.
The marines waved the car down. As it squeaked to a halt, the pair approached. They were big men, just like all the other marines. Their armour looked cumbersome and uncomfortable in the building heat. Each had an assault rifle held across their front.
“Get out of the car,” ordered one of them. What’s his accent? American?
The driver, following Nardos’ example, opened his door and climbed out of the vehicle, his arms raised. Aiden stood up from his own seat, bringing the pistol up as quickly as he could. He shot the right-hand marine in the eye. The other marine jumped backwards, bringing his rifle to bear, just as Aiden shot him in the neck. Like his comrade, he slumped loosely to the ground, his neck hissing as blood jetted from the wound. Aiden shot him again. He jumped down from the car with his pistol levelled at the aircraft. Standing at the foot of the craft’s ramp was a third man, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. Aside from a holstered pistol, he was unarmed.
“Don’t move!” shouted Aiden, advancing towards him.
“Hold on!” cried the man, his hands held out before him as he backed up the ramp, “I’m just the pilot!”
“I said don’t move!” shouted Aiden again. The pilot froze at the top of the ramp, still with his arms outstretched. “Is there anyone else we should know about?” demanded Aiden, still advancing.
“Just me! Please, take what you want and go. I’m no threat!”
Hesitating, Aiden looked back over his shoulder at the car. They had to keep moving; the other marines had surely heard the shots.
Two shots cracked from Aiden’s right. He spun to see the pilot fall backwards, dead. He turned then to see Nardos: a marine’s assault rifle in his hands, the barrel smoking.
“He went for his gun,” said Nardos, lowering the rifle. Aiden just nodded. His ears were ringing.
Aiden and Nardos ran aboard the marine transport, past the dead pilot. He had been truthful: there was nobody else to be seen on board. Aiden went straight for the cockpit. Inside, he turned on the auxiliary power supply so that he could use the controls. Then he hit the emergency fuel jettison, and watched from the window as the stumpy wings sprayed fuel from their internal tanks, all over the dry grass beneath them. He ushered Nardos out of the cockpit as he put three pistol rounds into the central console, smashing the screen. His ears were ringing again.
Outside the aircraft, the pair ran back to the shocked driver and his car. Aiden scooped up the other assault rifle and climbed in while Nardos gently spoke to the lanky driver in Armenian, nudging him back towards the car. The man was clearly troubled by what he had seen. Even through the grease and grime he had gone pale. Aiden supposed he would have, too, if it had happened a week ago, but today he felt no sorrow for the marines.
Though his hands were shaking again.
The engine coughed into life and the car sped off once more, following the road around the outskirts of the ruined town. Aiden and Nardos kept the assault rifles to hand, nervously watching the side roads and tumbled-down streets for any sign of more marines. They couldn’t have had far to go to reach the Iolaire. Just a few more minutes.
The jostling and bumping was making Aiden’s arm more painful. What had begun as a dull ache was now a stabbing pain that seemed to cut right to the bone. It felt as if there was a hot knife wedged between his muscles, slowly working its way deeper into his flesh.
He needed more painkillers. There were still some aboard the Iolaire, assuming the aircraft hadn’t been ransacked by the marines yet. Aiden let go of the rifle with his left hand, resting it instead on a roll-bar. He laid his arm in his lap, trying to make it comfortable. The pain eased a little.
Soon the road turned sharply west, joining a straight main road of slightly better upkeep than the previous one, at the end of which Aiden could see the Iolaire. It was maybe a klick or so away, perched on the gentle slope up from the town. They were south of the town now: it sat in a depression to their right, straddling the deep Ashtarak gorge. Beyond it, to the north, sat the little cluster of hamlets they had set out from, and beyond that the sloping plains rose up to the distant Mount Aragats, its top crowned with cloud.
Aiden knew that somewhere down in the town, dangerous men were searching for him. He hoped he had done enough to give them the slip: now he needed Fredrick to be at the Iolaire. If he wasn’t, Aiden didn’t know what he’d do. Was it worth heading into town to find him, or should he just take the craft and run? He didn’t want to think about it.
The car crossed a smashed and crumbling highway and the driver crunched down the gears as the dusty track up to the Iolaire steepened. The aircraft had disappeared from view, hidden by the lip of the hill. All too soon, the car pulled onto the levelled pad of earth. The Iolaire, at least the starboard side facing Aiden, appeared untouched. The ramp was closed and the landing pad was deserted. Aiden remembered to breathe. He hadn’t realised he was tensing, his assault rifle held in a white-knuckled grip.
The driver, still solemn-faced and staring, switched off the engine. The quiet deafened Aiden for a moment. Both him and Nardos just sat, their stolen rifles shouldered.
Still nothing broke the quiet. Aiden gathered his courage. With a sudden start, both he and Nardos leapt from the vehicle. Aiden advanced on the Iolaire, his weapon up, his boots crunching loudly across the pad. He peeked around the raised cargo ramp, checking the port side of the aircraft. There was no one there. He saw the hole in the port wing: it was impressive. It had to have been an autocannon shell. They were lucky: if that shell had hit an engine, he very much doubted they’d have made it out of Azerbaijan.
He stood for a moment, listening as hard as he could through the rush of blood in his ears. The silence was almost profound. All he could hear was a distant bird’s call and the buzz of a fly as it lazily passed by his head.
Aiden lowered his rifle. He looked at Nardos, who was hunched as he peered around. Nardos looked at Aiden and nodded.
Aiden flipped open the covering panel for the keypad. He thumbed in the code and the ramp buzzed down slowly to the ground. He climbed into the cargo hold. Fredrick’s curtain was open, and the bunk was empty. There was no one in the head or the cockpit. Fredrick wasn’t there.
Shit.
Aiden stared out of the cockpit glass, angry. The bastard was never there when Aiden needed him to be.
“Aiden!” came a shout from outside, from Nardos. The tone of it made
Aiden’s blood run cold. Without thinking he ran down across the cargo hold and out into the open.
He saw Nardos and two marines. One had a carbine pointed at Nardos. The other was aiming at Aiden. Before Aiden could react at all, someone hit him in the head, hard.
When the blackness receded, Aiden was on his face in the dust. His rifle was lying just ahead of him, but as he scrambled for it a boot kicked it out of his reach. The same boot then stamped on Aiden’s hand, grinding his fingers into the dust with its heel. Aiden ground his teeth to stop himself from crying out.
“Ah-ah-ah,” growled a deep voice above him. “Naughty.”
The boot was removed. “You stay very still now,” said the voice, “‘cause I’m just itching for an excuse.” A rifle cocked above him. Aiden lay very still.
“We’ve got one of them,” said another voice, not far from Aiden. “Dark hair…. Two locals with him…. Received.” Then the voice announced to its comrades, “We hold them here. Prosper is on his way.”
Aiden could feel the uncomfortable form of his pistol pressing against his pelvis. It was sandwiched between him and the ground, hidden from the marines. They still hadn’t searched him.
Why the hell weren’t they searching him? Shouldn’t they at least bind his hands? These guys were either amateurs, or they didn’t particularly feel the need. And why should they? He was thinner and lighter than even the puniest marine, and three of them had the drop on him, even before you factored in their weaponry. He was in a pretty hopeless position, with his face in the dirt and his hands nowhere near the gun. And now his head was aching. They’d hit him pretty hard.
Aiden felt his choler rise. Things had been going well. He’d only needed Fredrick to be in the Iolaire, and they could have just upped and run. Then he reminded himself that those marines had been waiting for them, hidden behind the bloody embankment or something. If Fredrick had been at the aircraft, they’d have both been caught, and things would no doubt have been a hell of a lot worse. From the marine’s radio call, he doubted that they had Fredrick yet. There was still hope that at least one of them might get away.
But not Aiden. He was caught like a dog in a trap, and it made him mad.
Then, from the town, came the stuttering thump of gunfire. Random and wild, it grew until it was a cacophony. It was intense. A battle had begun.
18.
Ashtarak Square
Tovmas was furious. As the dawn light broke over Ashtarak, three half-drunk militiamen had come into his home to arrest him and drag him before the council. Now the three men were dead. One of them couldn’t have been older than eighteen.
The bodies of the men still lay where they died: two on the kitchen floor and one across the table. Tovmas was pushing fresh rounds into his pistol magazine. He was staring out of his window, his face hard. Azarian had to have ordered it. Nothing else made sense.
“People will have heard the shots,” said Samvel. Tovmas nodded absently. He didn’t turn around. “We need to go, Tovmas. We need to gather the men loyal to you.”
“Azarian will pay,” muttered Tovmas. He slid the loaded magazine back into his pistol.
“Yes, Tovmas, he will. You can’t do it alone, though,” Samvel came forward, laying a hand on Tovmas shoulder. “You need your men.”
“There may have been more than three sent after me. I need you ready to fight,” said Tovmas, still facing the window and the rising sun.
“I know. I am ready.”
“Are you, Samvel?” Tovmas now turned to his younger friend. “We will kill Armenians today. Ashtarak folk. These three were just the beginning. Azarian will turn the people against me and pull them around him as a shield.”
“I am ready, Tovmas.”
Tovmas merely nodded, picked his assault rifle from the wall and swept out of the house through the open front door. Samvel followed at his heels, switching his rifle to auto.
Tovmas stopped in the middle of the street, his rifle shouldered. Samvel copied his stance, every muscle in his body tensed as he expected shots to begin lashing out at them. Nothing happened, and the street was quiet. Samvel eyed the houses to either side with distrust. Still nothing. He relaxed a little.
“Go and get the men,” ordered Tovmas. “Wait for me just short of the square.”
“Tovmas-” Samvel tried to protest.
“I have to go ahead, alone. Go.”
Samvel stared uncomprehending at Tovmas for a moment, before tipping his head slightly in acknowledgement and running back along the street, disappearing around a corner.
Tovmas closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the quiet. It might be the last he’d ever hear. He thought of his daughter, safe at home in Ushi. If he didn’t make it through the day, at least there was that.
He set off walking towards the town centre, the sun beaming across his path between houses. There was no sign of Azarian’s militia. He must have only sent three. In a way, it was insulting.
The kilometre or so to the square passed quickly. Tovmas revelled in the sleeping town; it was his home, its people were his people. Here he had a sense of place. But he could make it better. He knew he could. It would taste glory, if it would let him. But Azarian would try to stop him. The old fool couldn’t see that without sacrifice, there could be no gain.
Tovmas slipped into an alley just short of the square, behind a half-reconstructed three-storey building. It had been a block of apartments before the war: some ambitious and well-meaning soul had attempted to rebuild it some years ago, before losing sight of the point and abandoning it. Now it was a shell of brick walls and scaffolding walkways that roughly adhered to the separate stories. Tovmas silently climbed a ladder to the second floor.
Pressed up against the wall, breathing heavily, he peered through an opening where a window should have been. His stomach dropped.
In the wide town square were at least forty men. Most were just town militia, arrayed in a huddled crowd along the council hall side of the square; this Tovmas had expected. The rest, towards the steps of the hall, were soldiers. At least, the armour they wore was very similar to what had once been his uniform: infantry of the NAU. Tovmas’ mind reeled. It couldn’t have been… the Union had collapsed over twenty years ago.
Mercenaries. They had to have been. Mercenaries hired by Azarian to deal with Tovmas and his followers. Anger flared again in his core as he guessed at Azarian’s plan.
Tovmas could see it now. The soldiers, though they stood casually, were prepared for something. They were too still, each one focused on an entrance to the town square. Unlike the militiamen, the soldiers stood close to cover. The militiamen instead looked on towards the street openings as an excited crowd, unsure of what to expect, but obviously eager to find out. No doubt Azarian had spun his lies to them, painting him as a traitor and a criminal. They probably expected Tovmas to be dragged into the square in chains, with grins on the faces of his three triumphant captors. They expected drama and spectacle: something the militia didn’t often see. Whatever their anticipations, they clearly didn’t expect a fight.
Somehow, he had to convince them that he wasn’t their enemy. He had to show them that he could lead them; that he could bring Ashtarak glory; that Armenia could be unified once more. He had to show them Azarian’s spinelessness. But how on earth was he supposed to do that, when a heavily armed band of mercenaries was standing ready to shoot him on sight?
Tovmas leaned back in and rested his head against the wall, gazing skywards as he struggled for a solution. His shoulders sagged. He could think of nothing that didn’t result in the deaths of Ashtarak men. Perhaps he should just hand himself in, to avoid the bloodshed.
Hand himself in, forsake Ashtarak’s hope for glory; forsake Armenia. Yes, a few lives might be spared today, but Tovmas knew the fate awaiting a broken Armenia would be far worse. It would be consumed by raiders and barbarians; its people slaughtered or taken as slaves just as his daughter was. He couldn’t- he wouldn’t allow it. He had to overcome Az
arian. He had to prove his cause.
“Azarian!” came a bellow from the square below. Tovmas peered around the wall once more. To his horror, he saw Samvel striding towards the council hall, his assault rifle levelled. Streaming into the square behind him was a small crowd of bleary-eyed militiamen. Some of them had gone with Tovmas to Kakavaberd and Baku; the rest were friends of Samvel and him: men he could trust. Men he knew would follow him.
“Azarian!” shouted Samvel once more. “What have you done with Tovmas?”
Tovmas could see the militiamen bristle at the threatening tone. Smiles had disappeared, excitement turned to tension. Weapons were gripped more tightly. Safety catches were switched off. The soldiers too, though facially impossible to read, had shifted their stances slightly. All were staring at the young Armenian who had boldly marched into the square.
Some movement caught Tovmas’ eye. In an open third-floor window of the council hall, a curtain had twitched. Now it was drawn back slightly, revealing the unmistakeable muzzle of a light machinegun. It was pointed at Tovmas’ men. They hadn’t seen it.
“Azarian! I know you hear me!” Samvel shouted, oblivious to the danger he was in. “Show your face, old man!”
Tovmas knew he had to break silence. He had to let his men know that he hadn’t been captured. He had to stop them from doing something even stupider.
Even as he drew breath to call out, he heard the creak of the council hall door opening across the silent square. Holding his shout, he looked out once more. Azarian had emerged from the council hall, now standing at the top of the steps, illuminated by the slanting dawn light. A smartly-dressed man Tovmas didn’t recognise stood at his shoulder with another pair of mercenaries. They faced Tovmas’ men, squinting across the square at their shadowed forms: the sun was behind Samvel. It might be the only thing that could save him.