“Then I shall not worry, either,” Weatherby said. “Though that is probably something of an untruth.”
A young midshipman ran up. “My Lord Admiral, I—” The boy stopped to stare at Shaila’s V-SEV. “I—”
Weatherby allowed the boy several moments to take in the 12-foot-tall monstrosity before tapping him on the shoulder. “You were saying?”
“Sorry, my Lord. All report ready. The Lady Weatherby instructed me specifically to remind you to give her and Dr. Finch time to fire before your flanks advance.”
“Very well. Anything else?”
The boy looked down upon his shoes at this, his face reddening. “The lady asked me to extend other messages as well, though I dare say t’was none of my business to hear them, my Lord.”
Weatherby managed a smile, though he knew their last words upon the beach were less than ideal. As much as he wanted to know what she said, now was not the time. “I take your meaning well enough. You are discharged from that task. Stay with me in case I’ve need of a runner.”
He was interrupted by Shaila. “Admiral, looks like the French are moving. Diaz and Durand reporting it too. They’re advancing.”
Weatherby sighed. “Very well. I suggest you seal your hatches, Commander, and prepare to advance as well. Our van will be behind you.”
Shaila tossed off a casual salute. “Tell them not to get underfoot. I won’t be able to see them. Otherwise, I’ll pave the road for you.” And with that, the queer glass-and-metal hatch once again lowered over her body, leaving her sitting inside the belly of the metal giant she piloted so deftly.
“Truly amazing,” Weatherby muttered, before turning to his men and drawing his sword high. “Englishmen! These French before us hold fell secrets that will aid those left at home! Victory here saves all England! Our lands, our families, our people now rely on us! Today, we start France on its road to defeat!”
The men cheered loudly, and Weatherby saw even the most fearful faces gain new heart, even as his own heart sank. Some of those cheering would be dead soon, and at his command. He offered a silent prayer that their deaths would have meaning beyond the words he would next yell. “Now! For God and King! For England! CHARGE!”
Weatherby drew his sword and tapped the flat of the blade on Shaila’s V-SEV, and the giant metal suit immediately started striding forward, even as the first rounds of musket fire could be heard whizzing past. The admiral pointed his sword forward, and began jogging, lines of marines and sailors behind him.
For England, he thought. For home.
“All right, I’m on the move,” Shaila said over the comm, “and I got a bunch of guys with muskets behind me. Over.” Shaila’s HUD immediately pointed out the location of Stephane and Diaz, to her far left and right, respectively, and she could see them moving as well, identified as blue dots, with dozens of white dots behind them in neat lines. Ahead, the computer helpfully pointed out movement, though it was having a hard time properly identifying the Corps Éternel. It settled on another “UNKNOWN FAUNA” designation.
“Roger that,” Diaz replied. “Getting some musket fire. No damage. Powering up the laser drills now. Remember, aim only for the zombies. Kicking and stomping works, too.”
Shaila flipped a switch to fire up her own drills. “Durand, report.”
“I’m here,” he replied, sounded determined. “Ready to fight.”
I bet you are, Shaila thought. “Roger. Don’t get carried away, honey.”
“I am perfectly calm,” Stephane protested, a hint of humor in his voice. “But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to this a little bit, yes?”
Shaila’s reply was cut short by her HUD readout, which saw a few of the white dots behind her winking out. “They’re taking heavy fire,” she said. “We’re starting to lose ‘em.”
“Double time,” Diaz ordered. “Get to the French lines and start cutting.”
Shaila pushed her yoke forward and felt the V-SEV respond quickly, charging across the glen and leaving the English lines behind her. It was but the work of thirty seconds to get to the first lines of kneeling French soldiers. She saw a few scatter—the living ones—while the rest still went through the rote motions of firing, reloading and firing again.
Shaila turned to her left, toward Stephane, and fired up her right drill. Looking out her starboard window, she saw the red line cut through the first two undead soldiers like butter, severing heads and arms from torsos with ease. “Lasers are effective. Repeat, lasers are effective. Let’s go.”
She once again started up, using her laser to cut through the first two rows of soldiers. Ten, twenty, thirty—they went down wordlessly, passively, continuing to fire their muskets even as their legs were cut out from under them. They didn’t move, didn’t flee.
It was creepy as hell.
“Laser power down to 30 percent,” Diaz said. “I’m shutting down to recharge. Suggest you do the same and start clobbering instead.”
“Roger that,” Shaila replied, shutting down her drills. She then turned right and waded into the French lines, swinging the V-SEV’s arms wildly so as to strike as many French soldiers as possible. A few more started running—again, the living ones, it seemed—while the Corps Éternel were starting to form lines for what seemed to be bayonet charges. For all the good it will do them.
“Um, Shay? I am seeing some living French soldiers with ropes and chains,” Stephane reported over the comm. “I think…wait…they’re going for the legs! Shay, they’re going to try to take us down!”
Ahead, Shaila could see several undead soldiers carrying long lengths of rope and chain, spreading out as much as possible. “I see it. I hate it when they get clever.”
“Cut the chatter, Jain,” Diaz ordered. “If they take you down, sit tight. Do not, repeat, do not get out of your V-SEV. Acknowledge and confirm.”
Both Shaila and Stephane acknowledged, but continued to fight on. Shaila could see Stephane’s V-SEV in the distance, and noticed he was swinging and stomping hard, wading in almost heedlessly—probably too fast for him to be making best use of his HUD. She was about to chide him for it when a huge gout of flame erupted from behind her, sending her sensor alarms screeching. “What the hell was that?”
“Alchemy, I think,” Diaz replied. “They managed to take out a couple hundred with those blasts. Not bad.”
And indeed, Shaila could see several undead soldiers now on fire, toppling over or simply crouched down, ablaze in the undergrowth—which was also starting to catch. “Guys, if you can, try to stomp out some of these fires as you go so our guys don’t get torched,” she said.
On her tactical map, she could see rows and rows of UNKNOWN FAUNA falling ahead of her—but the white dots behind were easily at two-thirds of what they were just a few minutes ago. And there were a lot more unknowns than friendlies. She redoubled her efforts, following Stephane’s example by charging hard into the nearest mass of French soldiers, stomping and swinging wildly. A few of them started climbing the chassis, and one managed to even reach her hatch, peering through the window with hollow eyes, sunken cheeks and dried, peeled-back lips.
She used a pincer to pluck the fucker off and throw him twenty meters away. Gross.
Suddenly, her HUD erupted in light, and several alarms went off. On either side of the glen, hundreds upon hundreds of new dots appeared. It took the computer several seconds to identify them, and when it did, all it came up with was UNKNOWN FAUNA-2. It also helpfully relabeled the Corps Éternel as UNKNOWN FAUNA-1.
“What the hell is that?” Shaila said. “Jain here. We got new bogies at three and nine. Anyone have eyes on them? Over.”
Before anyone responded, she felt her V-SEV start to tip. More alarms went off, and the cameras helpfully showed what the computer had labeled MULTIPLE OBSTRUCTIONS—several French soldiers, both living and dead, were pulling on her V-SEV’s legs with ropes.
She swung the vehicle’s arms wildly, but it was no use. She pitched forward, the gr
ound rushing up to meet her windows.
Weatherby was covered with black ichor and red blood from the battle, nicked and scratched but mostly hale, and was able to pause long enough to witness Shaila’s vehicle fall before he could identify the source. Then the chains and ropes became visible, and soon discovered the French were truly learning to become adaptable yet again, with unfortunate timing on their part.
“To the metal giant!” he shouted, rushing forward. Several marines and sailors accompanied him, and it was the work of but a bloody, swirling minute before the intrepid French were scattered or slain, though it cost him two of his small squad.
“You two! Untangle the ropes and chains. Let us see if we can get her upright again!” Weatherby ordered the two closest men, even as he cast his eye around for more targets. “The rest of you, reload and ready!”
As his men carried out his orders, Weatherby clambered up onto one of the giant’s metal legs. He could see the battle going poorly indeed, with hundreds of French before him in neat rows, marching forward with eerie symmetry. Behind him, his men fought bravely, but he had lost at least a hundred thus far, even though he estimated more than five hundred casualties among the French, largely due to Finch and Anne’s alchemy, along with the beams of light from Jain, Diaz and Durand. To Weatherby’s left and right, the other two metal giants fought on, and he could even see some of his men working on a flanking maneuver to take down more of the French as they advanced.
It would not be enough. The calculus was against him. Too many French, not nearly enough men and cannon. Were the odds even, he might cut through them like a scythe through wheat, but whereas his living soldiers might cut down a dozen undying creatures, they were far more susceptible to wounds. The French had only to be lucky once.
He wished to sound a retreat, and to go back and ensure Anne was safe. But he could not, for if but one of Jain’s people in their sturdy vehicles could push forward past the French, they had a chance to reach the ruins in time, to try to figure out the French plot, if there was one, and perhaps to send Althotas to his death once and for all.
And if that happened, perhaps England could be liberated. Perhaps.
“It’s been freed, my Lord,” one of his men said.
Weatherby looked down to see the vehicles limbs were untangled, and jumped off it just as it started to move. “Commander Jain!” he shouted, “Are you quite all right?”
Slowly, the metal giant rose onto all fours, to the point where he could see through the hatch windows once more. Inside, Shaila Jain hung there in her harness, but raised her hand and thumb to him. He could only assume from her demeanor, and lack of further signaling, that this was a positive thing.
“Admiral!”
Weatherby turned once more, and saw a long line of French troops, several rows deep, advancing on their position. He looked about and saw but thirty or forty Englishmen behind him. So be it. “Form a line and prepare to fire!”
To a man, his soldiers and sailors quickly settled into ranks and aimed, using the still-prone vehicle as cover. Weatherby drew his last pistol and himself took aim.
“Ready! Aim!—”
The first rows of French soldiers fell before he could give the order to fire.
“What?”
More were felled.
By spears and arrows.
“My Lord! ‘Tis the Venusians!” a marine shouted.
And so it was, for Weatherby soon heard the alien croaking and creaking that was the Venusian battle cry. To his left, several dozen warriors swung down from the trees on vines, spears at the ready, and fell upon the French with vigor, tearing at the revenants’ undead flesh with claw and beak and primitive weapons. To the right, a larger group of warriors erupted from the underbrush and descended into the clearing en masse, aiming for the back ranks of the French forces. There, they too fell upon the French, aiming squarely for the revenants and swarming over them, using their sheer numbers to make up for their diminutive size.
And that left the first few ranks facing Weatherby vulnerable once more.
The admiral turned back to his men, a smile upon his face. Thank you, Elizabeth. “FIRE!”
Thirty muskets spoke as one, and a moment later, a score of French Corps Éternel dropped. Those still moving were soon set upon by the Venusians, who tore into the French with spear and claw—and with surprising, savage efficacy.
For the first time in what seemed an age, Weatherby allowed himself to feel just a small glimmer of hope.
“CHARGE!”
“The Venusians!” Stephane shouted over the comm. “They’re joining the fight after all!”
Shaila managed to get her V-SEV into a kneeling position and surveyed the scene in front of her. “Roger that. And they got balls, I’ll give ‘em that,” she replied as she watched three small anthropomorphic lizards jump onto a zombified soldier and bring him down with stone axes and spears. In three years of strange sights, it was most definitely one of the stranger ones.
“Confirmed. I’m calling them as friendlies,” Diaz replied. “They’re only going after the dead guys. Repeat. The little lizard-men are friendlies. Get to the center of the French lines so we don’t cut or step on any allies here.”
Shaila managed to get her V-SEV on its feet once more and did a quick diagnostic—it would limp a bit, but it was mobile enough. “Roger. Proceeding forward. Meet you at grid number 34-27.”
She didn’t quite know how they knew to avoid the V-SEVs, but it seemed the Venusians either sensed that the mechs were friendly, or just hated the French zombies a whole lot. Either way, the little lizard-people scattered quickly before her, leaving the undead soldiers to be kicked and swept aside as she moved. In fact, it seemed a group of UNIDENTIFIED FAUNA-2 were trailing her mech and attacking whatever UNIDENTIFIED FAUNA-1 were still kicking as she passed.
And that worked just fine by her.
After a few minutes, Shaila managed to rendezvous with Diaz and Stephane toward the eastern side of the glen, though by this time, several lines of French troops were advancing on them with more ropes and chains. Shaila checked her drill power—it was back up to 67 percent. “General, suggest we go back-to-back and fire up the lasers again.”
“Roger that,” Diaz said. “Stephane, stay where you are and fire up your drills. We’ll come up on your position and protect your back.”
Shaila and Diaz maneuvered so that the three V-SEVs were standing in a triangle, arms and drills extended. “Ready when you are, General,” Stephane said.
“Light ‘em up,” Diaz ordered.
The laser drills flashed…and the Corps Éternel proved to be less-than-eternal. The beams easily cut through several ranks of soldiers at a pass, leaving twitching masses of still-animated body parts on the ground, which was quickly turning black with whatever passed for their blood.
“God, these things are awful,” Shaila said.
“Their blood has been infused with the energies of the Egyptian Underworld,” Stephane said, sounding slightly distant. “They have the Void inside them, animating them and….my God, I don’t want to know these things anymore.”
“You OK, Durand?” Diaz asked.
“I am, but I want to get to the memory vault,” Stephane said. “Can—”
Suddenly, with a earth-shattering boom, Stephane’s mech began to topple over onto Shaila’s. “I’m hit! A cannon ball, I think! Not stabilizing!”
Shaila, in turn, stepped forward and managed not to fall with him, though it looked like a piece of Stephane’s vehicle caught the arm of her V-SEV, ripping through the connectors and rendering it useless for the time being. “Stephane, you goddamn stay put and stay in your V-SEV, you read me?”
“Ow. I’m not going anywhere,” Stephane said. “Power is offline, systems are rebooting.”
Shaila turned and saw Diaz’ V-SEV heading off east. “I saw the shot. I’m gonna go try to take out some artillery. Jain, keep Durand clear of pests.”
“Acknowledged,” she replied. She
continued to use her lasers in a wide swath—but quickly shut them down when she saw a squad of English and Venusians heading toward her position.
“Looks like our pals are catching up. That must be a good sign,” she said. She pushed forward a few paces to knock several dozen Corps Éternel aside; they had turned to fire on the English, which made them easy pickings.
The group’s leader jogged up behind her and gave her a jaunty salute—and she swore angrily when she realized who it was. She flipped on her outside speakers. “Dammit, Lieutenant, what the hell are you doing? Where’s Elizabeth?”
Philip St. Germain’s smile grew slightly wider, even though his left arm was hanging limply by his side. “I believe we are fighting, my Lady Commander. And thanks to her persuasiveness, our new allies have escorted her to the safekeeping of my mother.”
Kids. “All right. Form up behind me, then. Use the other V-SEV as cover so you can fire without getting trampled or shot.”
“The other what?”
Shaila groaned. “V-SEV. The thing I’m in. There’s one on the ground that’s damaged. Use it as armor and hide behind it as you shoot the bad guys. Got it?”
Philip nodded. “Very good. Come on, men! Follow me!”
To be fair, it seemed the group of bedraggled soldiers and sailors following Philip went along without so much as a peep of discontent. Shaila wondered if Philip had suddenly developed a sense of leadership. Then Philip pulled a flask from his coat and, wisely using the V-SEV as cover, tossed it toward a group of French soldiers. In an instant, the ground started…writhing. Vines and tendrils grew, leaves sprouted, trees grew larger—and soon the French were entangled up to their necks in the brightly-colored Venusian undergrowth, which had grown to twenty times its normal size. Alchemy works too, I guess, Shaila thought. That’s pretty impressive.
Then the Venusians descended and, a moment later, the French troops were relieved of their heads. The vines retreated, and their corpses fell. Shaila wasn’t sure whether to feel elated or grossed out.
The Venusian Gambit Page 30