“Got the mollies ready, chief,” said Ancil.
“Wait till we’ve got a bit more smoke…”
Suddenly, an urgent high-pitched beeping cut through the roar of the bonfire, and water began to spray from the atrium’s high ceiling. Out on the landing only steady dribbles fell from the wrecked sprinklers.
The air was now getting warm and thick with smoke, and difficult to breathe. Coughing on the charred soot, Pyke tapped Ancil on the shoulder. “Now’s the time–you and Kref take out the sentries to either side.”
Rather than provide a static target, Kref and Ancil one by one dodged into the gap beside the bonfire, tossed a flaming missile and spun away into cover, all in one swift movement. Ancil’s was bang on target, a neat lob right over the balcony plants to smash against stonework and splash fiery liquid over every surface. Kref’s Molotov shattered against the metal balustrade but the result was the same, a wave of burning alcohol engulfing both balconies. There were cries of panic and fear from one, screams of pain from the other, and through the haze of smoke and water spray Pyke saw from his position one figure coughing harshly as he scrambled away from the flames towards a doorway. The screams from the other balcony had faded to a horrible choking sound, then silence.
“Ancil,” Pyke said. “Think you can land a molly on the atrium platform from behind that trough?” He pointed at a greenery-smothered stone trough half inside the atrium, slightly left of the ornamental pool.
“Is the Cyberpope a quantumystic catholic?” came the reply.
Pyke laughed and beckoned Mojag and Kref over.
“Okay, we’ll be plastering ’em with a few volleys to make ’em keep their heads down while you dash in. Ready?”
“Well, I suppose I better be, chief.”
By now, everyone had a strip of torn-off fabric covering their mouths, although the smoke from the fire showed signs of diminishing. Ancil was crouched and ready near the atrium entrance. Kref and Mojag stood near Pyke as he counted down from three–then they brought weapons to bear on the upper atrium platform and unleashed a barrage of gunfire. A second later Ancil darted into the great chamber, heading for the big plant trough… and halfway there slipped on the water-slick floor tiles.
Pyke yelled at Ancil to get to cover, even as his revolver ran out of shells. Kref was dragging him away from the atrium entrance while Mojag finished emptying his own weapon. Staggering back behind the wall, Pyke reloaded with furious haste, then dived over to the other side of the landing, peering past the slumping bonfire, and saw Ancil sprawled safely behind the stone trough. Grinning a manic, sweaty grin, Ancil gave him a thumbs-up.
“Just say the word, chief!”
Pyke glanced at Kref and Mojag, who both nodded their readiness.
“Okay,” he called out. “The word is–banjaxed!”
The three of them swung out in unison and fired round after round up at the atrium platform. A moment later Ancil threw the Molotov, a blazing knot that arced up, smashed against a pillar and sent fiery tendrils in all directions. A figure leaped up, batting at flames on its head and shoulders and staggering off to one side until further shots caught it in the head, and it fell out of sight.
Pyke glanced at Mojag who was calmly reloading the long-barrelled pistol he was given back in the Nightfinder’s underground refuge. The old Mojag would have gone into agonies of guilt if he’d only wounded someone in a firefight, he thought. And even Oleg wouldn’t have been quite this casual about it… He allowed himself a private moment of doubt. Truth be told, I’m feeling a bit edgy about this whole deal. Sure, cooking up moves on the fly has been our modus operandi in many a caper, but this is on an entirely different level altogether. Feels like we’re flying down a slide in the dark, with flashes of light showing up people and places as we hurtle past, and no way to get out. Bit of a scary craic… and exciting as hell!
“Time to take the high ground,” he said, leading the way in, joining up with Ancil.
With guns at the ready they hurried across the waterlogged atrium, careful not to slip in the numerous puddles. As Pyke had suspected, there was another way up to the next level, twin stairs that curved up to the rear of the wide platform. At the top Pyke sidled warily out of the stairway landing, senses edgily alert as he peered left and right. One of the balcony sentries had not yet been accounted for so he whispered to Ancil to take Mojag and scout that half of the upper atrium. At the same time he and Kref scoped out the balcony and rooms on the other side and found not a living soul. Some minutes later they all rendezvoused back at the atrium platform, overlooking the lower level.
“Found the missing sentry, chief,” said Ancil. “One of us must have hit him ’cos he was off at the rear, dead in a pool of his own blood. Checked his gun, same as the others, but we did find a doorway to a stairway leading up.”
Pyke nodded thoughtfully, eyeing the semi-transparent shaft enclosing the elevator that linked both levels of the atrium, noting that it went straight up into the ceiling. “That lift must go up to the next floor, surely…”
So saying he strode around the waist-high marble coping that surrounded it, stood before its tri-segment door and prodded what looked like a call-button. A moment later the door slid open followed by a curved inner door, all smooth and silent. The lift chamber itself was cylindrical and on its control panel were ten hexagonal buttons.
“The Lord-Governor’s digs are right at the top,” Pyke said. “How many floors to go, d’ye reckon? Seven? Eight?”
Ancil gave a narrow-eyed, considering nod. “Could be, chief. I’ll take it up to the next floor, if you like.”
“I do like–save me having to volunteer ya!”
Pyke exited the lift and Ancil took his place.
“And listen, no thrilling heroics,” Pyke said. “Head up, take a look around, then back down here, got it?”
“It’s just me, chief,” Ancil said, stabbing the third button. “I don’t do solo heroics–not in my job description!”
As the door closed, a frowning Kref said, “Hey, Captain, what’s in my job description?”
Pyke smiled. “All the good fighting stuff–what else?” He indicated the elevator. “You two keep an eye on the lift–I’m just going to check on something.”
Leaving Kref and Mojag to lounge against the wall, he went around the lift to the banistered platform which jutted out over the atrium pool. The half-incinerated body of the sentry lay off to one side, while the decorative greenery had been reduced to a mass of intertwined blackened twigs. The air was still warm and stank of charred wet wood. Ashen water leaked from the planter containers, clouding the large puddles. The water sprinklers had either run dry or ceased after a preset period, and anyway the bonfire had burnt itself down to a low smouldering heap of embers and metal frames clumped with wads of melted plastic. Every surface in the atrium had a glaze of smoke-stained moisture and a thin haze still hung in the air. It felt like a showroom of ruination.
He was about to return to the others when a movement down by the bonfire caught his eye. Instinctively he ducked behind the charred vegetation, peeking through the web of black stems. A tall silver form came into view, then crouched, staying close to the atrium entrance. Pyke then remembered something Kref had said after bringing the curtains for the fire, a comment about a moving silver statue…
So as well as the Lord-Governor’s bodyguard in front, now we have to worry about who knows how many big silver bastards creeping up behind us! Well, that’s just brilliant.
Moving in a quiet-footed crouch he retreated from the edge of the atrium platform, straightening as he reached the area behind the lift shaft. And found Kref and Mojag still standing there. By themselves.
“Where’s Ancil?”
Kref gave a large shrug. “He’s not back yet.”
Pyke gave a snarly half-smile. “Something’s up–we better head upstairs, sharpish.”
“We’re not waiting here for him?” said Mojag in an Oleg fashion.
Pyke jabbed
a thumb over his shoulder. “Bad news is that we’ve got some mysterious uglies on our trail so we’ll have to keep moving. And hope that we meet up with him soon.”
Kref actually looked upset but nodded and went along. Pyke led the way up the broad curve of steps, keeping the pace steady but not hasty, with footfalls measured enough to minimise noise. Handguns were at the ready, held at waist level and with fingers off.
Then sounds came from the floor above, sharp knocks and scrapes. There was an open doorway at the top of the flight and Pyke indicated that they slow their ascent and bring their guns up in the aiming position. The knocks sounded like footsteps that were drawing near and Pyke steeled himself, hands gripping and steadying the big Gruxen pistol as he climbed, all his attention focused along the barrel…
A figure lurched into view and Pyke was an instant away from pulling the trigger before he recognised Ancil… who had himself ducked, out of reflex, on seeing all the guns pointed his way.
“What… what in the name of bloody black saints!…” Pyke had to make himself stop, force his temper back down and concentrate on being relieved that Ancil was still alive. “What do you think yer playing at?”
“Sorry, chief, sorry, I really am… it was the lift!”
“Doesn’t sound convincing so far, but go on.”
“Chief, I swear–got in the lift, went up to the next floor, this one, popped my head out for a look-see, then stepped back in the lift, pressed to go back down to you guys, and the fragging thing went up instead!”
“Then what?”
“Well, I panicked for a second then hit the button for the next floor up–luckily it stopped there, I got out and the lift carried on up. I knew you’d be wondering so I hurried back down.”
Pyke nodded. “Question is, was it another guard post higher up that called the lift, or someone at the top?… Look, we can’t hang about, we’ve got some gang of mystery villains hot on our heels.”
“What if a squad of guards comes down in the lift looking for trouble?” said Ancil.
Pyke opened his mouth, finger ready to jab in Ancil’s direction–then stopped as an illuminating thought made him smile. “Well, now, if that happens we get to take the fast track to our destination! A guard post wouldn’t send out a small team to scout around but a large detachment like the Lord-Governor’s bodyguard might.”
Ancil looked at him askance. “So we should take out their team when they get here?”
Pyke shook his head. “What we do is head up a couple of floors and call the lift–by then it should have taken the scout team down to the atrium, so then we grab the lift and ride it to the top and finish this thing!”
Ancil nodded, his weariness showing for a moment. “Sounds like a plan to kick down doors with–I’m in.”
Kref nodded eagerly, Mojag shrugged, then they were off, hurrying up the remaining steps and following Ancil to the next set of stairs. Even as they emerged from the stairwell Pyke spotted the shadow of the lift descending behind the frosted glass outer doors and had to physically hold back Kref’s plodding bulk for a couple of seconds before the Henkayan realised what was happening. Breaths were held as the lift passed by, then Pyke pointed at the next flight of stairs.
“Double-time, let’s go!”
They ran up the steps two, sometimes three, at a time. Pyke slowed at the top, exiting to the floor in a crouch, gun held ready, eyes and ears alert. But as with the rest of the evacuated tower there were no signs of life. He then rushed over to the lift and hit the call-button. He positioned Kref and Mojag on one side and Ancil and himself on the other, in case the lift had any undesirable passengers, but when it arrived it was empty. Quickly they all crammed inside but before Pyke could press the topmost button Ancil said, “Chief, if that team is in touch with the bodyguard detail they’ll be expecting us.”
Pyke gave a dry chuckle. “Caution, Ans? At this late stage? So we jump off at the last but one, is that what yer saying?”
“It is–gives us a chance to get sneaky.”
“Sometimes sneaky is good,” said Kref.
Pyke glanced at the Henkayan. “Ya don’t say? Okay, then.”
Deliberately he punched the topmost button, then flashed his mad-as-a-bag-of-spiders grin and jabbed the button below. The doors closed and with smooth ease the lift began its ascent. After several drawn-out nerve-twitching moments the elevator stopped and opened. With his gun-butt Pyke smashed the lift control panel, then stepped warily out and scanned the vicinity with narrowed eyes. The ceiling was low here and to left and right were wide pillared areas, low lit and shadowy and cluttered with large storage crates. Curiously, between the edge of the ceiling and the outer wall there was a wide gap which curved all the way round, with pale golden light shining through from above.
“So the top floor is like a huge platform held up by those pillars,” said Ancil. “If only I had some of those shaped charges left–just two would knock a honking great hole in the thing.”
“We get out of this in one piece, I’ll buy you a super deluxe gift pack of stuff that goes boom,” Pyke said. “But right now we need to find out how to get to the Lord-Governor without attracting attention…”
“Er, Captain,” said Mojag. “Too late…”
Two figures in dark body armour had appeared down the far end of the low pillared area and were firing energy weapons while on the move.
“This way!” Pyke yelled, plunging off to the side in a pell-mell run, using the crates for cover. On his first sight of this huge shadowy floor he thought he had spotted an illuminated exit off to the right, in the corner. Sure enough, it was there–weapons drawn they rushed through the lit doorway and leaped up the stairs. Pyke slowed suddenly on the second flight, giving Ancil wordless hand commands to keep eyes on the entrance below.
Up the stairs, exerting concentrated effort to be as silent as possible, holding breath near the top, staring out of the door, studying what he could see of this upper floor as he sidled nearer. Peering round the corner he experienced a certain awe as he took in the surroundings.
The topmost floor of Lord-Governor Gyr-Matu’s official residence was an extravagant play-palace. A broad section of booths and bars and entertainment cupolas led via curved stairs and gantries to a series of raised platforms with the highest of them joining onto a large upper section. Large overarching framework carried arrays of lights and odd networks of catenaries probably purposed to allow celebratory exhibits or opulent decorations to glide up and down and around this citadel of the elite. From all the gilded opulence Pyke was certain that the upper level was where Gyr-Matu’s inner court resided; overlooking it and all the lower levels was a broad dais complete with a high, grandiloquent throne. Pyke could imagine the place thronging with thousands of courtiers, cronies, supplicants, toadies, and other creeps while music blared, the booze flowed and the stimulants stimulated, a cacophony of privilege somewhat unlike its current state of silent, echoing vacancy. Empty, that is, apart from the four dark-uniformed guards up on the courtiers’ level who had spotted Pyke and the others and were scrambling to bring their energy rifles to bear.
Getting Kref–the largest moving target–out of harm’s way was their first task and after finding him a refuge in one of the small enclosed serving kiosks Pyke was able to concentrate on dealing with the Lord-Governor’s bodyguards. The next twenty minutes were a disjointed sequence of crazed dashing for cover, hearing the hiss-stutter of particle energy bolts stitching holes across the decor, smelling burnt wood and melted plastic.
With a combination of misdirection and suppressing fire, Pyke and Mojag made it possible for Ancil to dodge his way to one of the bars where, crawling on his stomach, he grabbed a clutch of bottles containing strong alcohol. When Pyke saw the thumbs-up signal he and Mojag alternated with a crossfire aimed up at the guards while Ancil ducked and dashed over to a stairway leading up to one of the intermediate platforms. When Kref then vaulted out of his kiosk–as best as a bear-sized Henkayan can vault–and rushe
d after him, Pyke had to confine his disbelief to some ear-scorching curses which only waned when it became clear that the desperate duo had found some solid cover.
Then came the hair-raising journey from cover behind a solid partition near the stairwell over to where Kref and Ancil were waiting. Mojag’s position was close by and between them they feinted, baited and decoyed their way across the elaborate maze of raised seating, dance-pits and racks of playscreens. Pyke practically threw himself to the floor next to where Ancil was working on a handful of bottles.
“Hey, chief, welcome to the party!”
Pyke gave a half-smile. “We’re not close enough yet to use those, ye know that.”
Ancil, tamping a wad of cloth into the neck of one blood-red bottle, smiled a knowing smile. “What about Kref?”
“Kref’s throwing arm couldn’t hit a barn door the size of a barn–sorry, Kref.”
“S’okay, Captain, I know I’m not the best chucker around.”
Ten minutes later Kref had his chance to show that this was not entirely true. Repeating the well-tested process of diversion, decoy and suppressing fire, Pyke was able to get his crew up as far as the last small platform before the more luxurious court level. On the way everyone picked up scratches, bruises, grazes from scrambling, diving and ducking on the rough flooring material. But just as they reached the final platform one of the guards aiming over the balustrade shot Kref in the leg. With a roar of pain the big Henkayan went down between a row of chairs and a big display unit composed of bubble-like niches. Mojag was nearest and went to help but Kref angrily brushed him off, got to his feet, his face a mask of rage, then with one hand picked up the closest padded armchair and hurled it. Pyke and the others watched in awe as the chair tumbled through the air in a perfect arc and struck one of the guards, knocking him flying.
Another chair followed, then a small carved table, by which time Ancil had a lit Molotov ready to slap into Kref’s empty hand. Kref spared it only the briefest of glances before hurling it straight after the flying furniture. The bottle shattered against a raised bench and flaming fluid splattered over a wide area. A couple of figures with blazing arms and hair darted away, crying out in pain and fear, while another was helping the chair-crippled guard off to the side. By the time Pyke reached the upper floor one of the burning guards seemed to be dead on the floor and the others were cowering in surrender, weapons cast aside. A happy Ancil was quick to grab the discarded rifles but then dumped them over the side when they turned out to be DNA-locked and useless.
Ancestral Machines Page 27