by Lucas Bale
Kayt’s group passed through the col. Some disappeared behind the arc of the basin; others crept slowly, low down and quiet, along the other wall. He watched as they filtered slowly downwards, threading their way between the fingers of the glacier and behind the collected charcoal heaps of the moraine.
Yet no shots came. He scanned the area around the freighter, resting the oculars on the stock on his rifle. He could see nothing now. No chukiri. Not anywhere. The tension building in his throat turned sour; it became something bitter and harder. More than fear. The hollow dread of knowing something has gone wrong. That the only plan he had was not going to work.
The first explosion rocked him utterly, snatching him away from his fear and plunging him into panic. He heard it rather than saw it. He snapped his eyes away from the oculars and saw the broken, burned bodies of five of his people. He couldn’t say who—there was not enough left to identify them.
At first he couldn’t process what had happened, but then it became clear. Violently and painfully, he understood his stupidity.
There were only two chukiri because they had set mines.
A second explosion rocked the basin, and Gant couldn’t breathe. This one was closer, just beneath him. He felt the tremors kick up through his legs, his groin, and his chest. He watched helplessly as bodies were tossed into the air amid shattered rock and billowing smoke. Blood spattered over the grey ice of the glacier. The stench of charred flesh suffused the air and caught in his throat. He wanted to shoot, to protect them somehow, kill something—but there was nothing to shoot. If he shouted to them, told them to stop moving, he would give away his position and be useless to them.
Then came the thunder and searing white light of the Peacekeeper heavy rifles. He fumbled the oculars again, searching for a target, something to shoot at. He found the first, close to his original position, but slightly away. They had moved, Gant realised; they had assumed Gant and his people were watching, and so they had changed positions. They’re trained, he thought. Better than us, cleverer. There’s no way we can beat them.
But here and now, he could kill one. He squeezed the trigger. Without the benefit of optical sighting, aiming was difficult. His first shot kicked stone at the edge of the crevasse. The chukiri changed his arc of fire, and projectiles hammered into stone to Gant’s right. That’s right, aim for me.
He breathed out slowly and squeezed off two quick shots. Then more. He saw a tiny spray of what could have been blood. The firing ceased abruptly. He had to believe one of those shots had found its mark. There was no time to check through the oculars, as more fire was now coming from the other side of the basin.
Gant panned with oculars and saw the strobed streaks of white flashing from behind a spur. More came from the other side of the basin. Three, perhaps four placements. There had been more chukiri, concealed within the rock and moraine. All of them up high, flipping the only advantage his people had—the terrain—against them.
The quieter crack of rifle fire echoed across the basin. Single shots, instead of the heady pulse of the heavier Peacekeeper weapons. He searched for them, trying to find the muzzle flash to work out where Abraham had placed his men. He caught it again, two shots this time, spread out. Through the oculars he could see them hunkered down. The chukiri would pick them up soon. They would barrage the ridge line until the threats were eradicated. It would draw the attention away from those heading down towards the freighter, but they had to move more slowly now. They had to check for mines, or booby traps, or whatever they were. It would take too long. They would become easy targets.
Gant tried to trace the line of sight Abraham’s men might have to the chukiri who was hidden behind the spur, but he doubted they could see him. Again came that throbbing pulse, a vibrating roar as chukiri projectiles lit up the sky. More of Gant’s people died.
Gant slung the rifle over his back and dropped down behind the cover of the ridge. There was nothing to place his feet on except a bullet-hard, sleek wash of ice. He kicked into it hard, jabbing his piolet into the side of the ridge as he free-climbed along it, traversing quickly. He glanced down and knew that a mistake would mean a fall.
That same purring roar came again, but it was closer now as he kicked and jabbed, kicked and jabbed, painstakingly covering the metres across the grey neck of the glacier. In his mind he could hear the screams of his people, the hissed moans of their pain as they lay dying.
When he reached the spur, he climbed up and over it, fury building inside him. The chukiri must have heard Gant as he sprinted over the ice, his spikes crunching as deafeningly as heavy rifle shots. As Gant rose above the spur, the hunter turned, snarling, and brought his weapon round.
Gant had no time to reach for his rifle. No time to do anything but jump, feet first, his spikes as much a weapon as his piolet. Both improvised, and both all he really had to offer. But Gant was quick. He was inside the rifle before the man could complete the turn. All his weight, every ounce of his rage and hate were channelled into a jump and kick with both feet. Slamming hard into the man’s chest.
A heavy breath huffed from the chukiri's open mouth. Then a stunned, wide-eyed stumble backwards, and a fall under the weight of Gant’s assault. As the chukiri hit the ground, Gant brought the piolet round as hard as he could. The serrated pick, designed to drive into bullet-hard ice, now drove through skin, tissue, and bone. He couldn’t aim, he had no time; he just brought it down as close to that scarred face as he could.
It buried itself into the chukiri’s throat as the man tried to turn away. It cut through the rim of the armour and severed an artery. Blood sprayed and then gushed. The man’s hands clamped to his throat, his eyes bulging. His mouth opened and closed and he took in short, ragged breaths. Gant yanked his spikes from the man’s chest and rolled away. He scrambled for the rifle, turned, and shot twice into the man’s bloodied face.
C H A P T E R 20
A FLOOD of red light washed the fog and the craggy flank of the mountain. A spiral of smoke trailed behind the source of that light as it soared upwards like a comet from behind the chukiri, way above them, thumping into the thick snow and disappearing. Weaver followed the dissipating trail of smoke back to its origin, searching the bank of rock beside the mountain track for signs of movement. He caught something, a fleeting gesture of motion that was then gone.
It had been an emergency flare of some sort. Weaver had seen them before, of course—they were stock equipment on all Republic vessels. He wondered first if it was a signal—if there were more chukiri coming and the flare was intended to guide them. If that had been its intention, it had failed. The flare had buried itself in a bank of snow, and instead of exploding and fast-burning the phosphorous chemicals inside its cylindrical head to create a burst of visible light, its contents had been dampened by the sodden vacuum inside the cornice.
But something inside him made him question that. An instinct he couldn’t explain. He continued to fire at the chukiri, ducking back down as they returned fire and the mountainside around him shook.
Backed against the rock, head resting on her shoulders, frustration and fear rising in her throat, Natasha swore. In her haste, she had snatched at it. Aimed, yes, but she’d been tense, on edge, and the flare had soared way too high. She had wanted it to hit the rock face beneath the overhanging snow and seracs. It needed somewhere open enough to explode. She swallowed hard and looked down at the other flare, that single remaining chance that now sat in her trembling hand. She gripped it tightly and tried again to calm herself.
She turned and eased above the boulder.
The guttural purr, the throbbing pulse of heavy rifle fire beneath her, thundered around the valley again, but with it came a new sensation. Instantly, before she had any chance to react, the mountain around her exploded. Shards of rock and ice filled the air, surging outwards, a storm of violence sweeping over her, cutting her face and clothing. She screamed and jerked away from it.
Pain lanced her skin and penetrated dee
p into muscle and tissue.
Breathless, she found herself lying on the cold rock. Fear held her down. Her body shook, her muscles weak and thready. Blood stung her lips and tasted bitter in the back of her mouth.
She swore again and again, breathing the words, hissing them and using them to calm herself. To get herself ready. You need to get up, she thought. You need to stare that damn thing in the face and fucking hit it this time. Don’t think, just do it.
She stood, ignoring everything around her—the gunfire, the wind, the splinters of rock and ice that erupted around her. She fixed her gaze on the overhanging waterfall of ice and fired in one swift movement. She didn’t think about it, didn’t force herself to focus; instead she let her subconscious take over, relied on instinct.
The flare bucked in her hand as the red mist and smoke exploded in front of her. She didn’t watch it run. She merely counted off a single, long second after she fired to steady her hand, then dropped down as projectiles from their heavy rifles consumed her.
Weaver had continued to watch both the chukiri, who were edging forward, and the vague area from which the flare had come. When he saw the figure stand and fire the second flare, he knew instinctively who it was, and at that moment, he understood what she was trying to do. His mind seemed to process all of it at once, the moment he realised it was her. What had happened on the Astratus; how she had escaped. How she had come to be here, after the very same objective they were. He imagined her watching the freighter coming down, probably shortly after she herself did, knowing it was her only chance to leave this place.
He saw them looking up at her, saw them open fire the moment she appeared. He watched her take a second to aim, then another to steady herself after she had fired. Then a conflagration of white, pulsing light exploded around her. And for a moment, Weaver felt regret. The woman trying to cause an avalanche, to turn the tide of the skirmishes taking place within the frozen massif, was the very woman he hunted.
On reflection, he ought not to have been surprised to see her. He had followed her to the Astratus, and he had seen no evidence that any of the disfigured bodies aboard that ship had been hers. The emergency flare had very likely come from one of the Astratus lifeboats; someone had escaped, and he should have guessed it would be her. He knew she was resourceful, physically powerful, a survivor. Nevertheless, he was surprised, and that momentary loss of focus nearly cost him his life.
The chukiri had indeed been able to improvise. While taking cover themselves, Weaver and Nikolaj had been unable to watch the chukiri's every movement. The flashes from their own rifles had given away their location—that much was unavoidable and Weaver knew it—but he had thought he would have more time. Yet the chukiri were fast, even over this difficult terrain. They first reached him at almost precisely the moment he realised who she was.
The chukiri glided over the rock and ice, swooping down on him before he could react. He caught the flood of black from the corner of his eye, but he saw it too late to shift his ground. All he could do was pivot a quarter-turn and bring the rifle halfway up.
The orange jata appeared like flames in the fading light, whipping around the scarred and pitted face that swept downwards towards his own, an ecstatic, animalistic rictus painted across it. He’ll enjoy this, Weaver thought abruptly, as the knife arced down towards his throat. There was no time to get the rifle up far enough to block it; no time to do anything other than fall.
One of the projectiles had struck its target. She had felt it punch through her shoulder; felt the late kick that knocked her backwards as she tried to drop behind the boulder. It didn’t hurt straight away. Her brain, wrapped up in adrenaline and fear, processed the signals surging from the wound, but it kept them from her for a half second, secreted away in some box until she scrambled for cover. Only when she was behind the boulder did it then rush over her, overwhelm her. Her breathing became shallow and fast. Eyes clamped shut. Burning in her shoulder and arm, as though oil had been slicked onto the skin and lit. Sweat poured off her face, ran into her eyes. Or maybe that was tears.
She growled like an animal, swearing, clenching her teeth and fists and fighting the rising tide of agony. How long? she thought. How long before they’re up here?
Abruptly, almost surreally, as though she had forgotten the flare in the rush of pain, there was a cavernous, hollow rumble. The ground beneath her shook. The air trembled and the wind swept around her like a cyclone, suddenly agitated. The rumble intensified until it was so loud, so overwhelming, it cried in her ears.
She pushed herself up to see.
The wall of ice and snow, the monstrous rampart of grey on the flank of the mountain, shifted first, as though readying itself, and then slid downwards. It was a mammoth, glissading slab, hundreds of metres across, that the black shadows below could not possibly escape. It consumed them completely, sucking them beneath it, crushing them as they were swept away. She couldn’t hear their screams above the seething roar that filled the valley.
As he fell backwards, Weaver managed to get the rifle up just far enough to thump the chukiri in the groin. It was a desperate, instinctive move, encumbered by speed and without thought or accuracy. It was all he had. The stock hit the armoured suit, and although it almost certainly caused the chukiri no physical pain, it disrupted his attack enough to edge the knife away from Weaver’s throat. The blade plunged into the ice behind him, opening a gash along the base of his skull as he turned his face away. Searing pain burrowed into his neck and down his back. The chukiri fell on him, and he shoved the rifle aside, cutting inside it. Desperation fuelled Weaver’s flailing movements, pushing and kicking, forcing the chukiri back as the jata slapped his face.
The man’s free hand clawed at Weaver’s throat, and Weaver was forced to release the rifle to clamp one hand around the hunter’s wrist, levering it away. With the other he seized the hand gripping the knife and tried to twist.
They grappled like that, the chukiri pressing home his advantage as Weaver fought him back, growing weaker and more tired as the suit augmented every move the chukiri sought to use. Weaver stared into his enemy’s eyes, spit and fury dripping from the man’s cicatricial face, and knew he was going to die.
He didn’t hear the rifle shot. He was only dimly aware of the roar of the avalanche somewhere in the valley beyond. The first indication he received that the chukiri had been struck by something, a projectile of some kind, was a gaping of his mouth, a tenseness in his body. A slow widening of the eyes; a stunned lack of understanding. The second projectile found its target more accurately, and the side of the hunter’s head erupted as it punched through bone, dragging with it a slick wet chaos of black, red, and grey. Weaver’s face was drenched in the sticky mess of the hunter’s blood and brain tissue, the bone from his skull. Almost a second later, the hunter’s body sagged and fell away.
The angle of the second shot could be discerned from the gaping wound in the head. He saw now, too, the bloodied hole in the armour in the chukiri’s back—the result of the first shot, he realised, the one that had saved his life. Both wounds led his eyes across the valley, maybe a hundred and fifty metres, to Nikolaj’s position. The shots had come from the boy. Shots that had saved Weaver’s life.
And as Weaver watched in horror the chukiri climbing down towards Nikolaj from above, unseen and silent, he realised they would soon lead to the boy’s death.
C H A P T E R 21
GANT HEARD the noise above the clamour of the Peacekeeper weapons and the chatter of the rifles belonging to his own people; even above the sound of more mines exploding. A distant rumble first, then a longer, intensifying roar, which reached a crescendo that left him in no doubt. An avalanche.
He couldn’t stop to think, couldn’t waste time trying to understand what that meant for his people, or for the chukiri who closed in on them from behind. What it meant for Nikolaj and the Caestor. He slung his own rifle behind his back and hefted the heavy Peacekeeper weapon. It felt cumbersome in his han
ds, its weight considerably more than the rifle he carried. He slipped his hand over the grip, rested a finger on the trigger, and rose above the crest of the shallow depression the chukiri had found for himself. The advantage Gant’s enemy had once had, this protected terrain, would now be Gant’s.
Wherever he saw flashes of brilliant white light, he fired. Wherever he was sure there were chukiri seeking to murder those he felt compelled to protect—his family—he poured down everything the weapon had. It kicked heavily in his hands, so much so that he doubted he was firing with much accuracy, but still he continued. He grew to understand it, learning swiftly out of desperation and necessity to control it. He fired until it was empty, and then he searched the ground around the body of the chukiri for replacement magazines to fill the gaping hole in the stock.
Time passed in a blur—a distant, hollow echo of a reality he couldn’t face. His people died all around him, he knew that. Kayt, Nikolaj, Tomas Benrubi. He had no idea if any of them still lived. So instead, he fought. Only when the weapon clicked and he realised it was empty did he stop.
Weaver brought his own rifle up, aimed quickly, and fired three times in quick succession. They were snap shots, intended to alert the boy as much as take out the threat to him. Yet as the projectiles left the barrel, spinning through the air towards the ridge, Weaver knew it was too late. The chukiri was already dropping onto the boy, a blade in his hand.
The boy’s cover, which had protected him from the Peacekeeper weapons below, now prevented Weaver from doing much of anything. The boy’s screams poured over the valley walls. Weaver took in fast, shallow breaths, the rage building inside him. He climbed quickly up the spur to give himself a better angle. He rested the rifle on a rim of rock, took in a long breath to steady himself, and waited. When the chukiri rose up, his own weapon in his hand, Weaver fired twice.