by James Axler
"Then this your responsibility, Captain. Find Anders or Kissel. Have them split our forces. Send half here to protect us, split the other half again, and send in one group to defend the fuel storage, and hold back the rest as reserves in case it explodes."
Amanda nodded at the wisdom of the arrangement. Her brother was a fool in most matters, but survival wasn't one of them.
"However, don't remove the guards on the tank," she said. "And elevate the order on Ryan and his people to kill."
"My lady?" the man said, confused. "But I thought-"
"Do it," Richard commanded. "They should go to Eugene, but this isn't the time. Shoot on sight. Bring us their bodies."
"Yes, my lord!" The bald man bowed and started to leave.
"One moment, Captain," Richard said softly.
Frozen in place, the man turned slowly. "Y-yes, my lord."
In slow deliberation, the son of the ward drew one of his blasters and fired. McGregory flinched, but felt no searing stab of pain. But a slave slicing a loaf of bread at the dining table dropped the carving knife, staggered backward and fell over, gushing blood.
"We said a random death every hour," Richard stated, holstering the blaster. "And it will continue until the outlanders are lying dead on this floor before us. I'm a man of honor."
"I just want them dead," Amanda stated. "You have until dawn. After which there will be a new captain of the guard."
Forcing a smile, McGregory acquiesced and depart with even greater haste then his arrival.
THE ROOM WAS DARK and smelled slightly of mold and mildew, like a damp cellar, sealed off and forgotten. Off in a corner, a bolt holding down a metallic screen twisted to the left, the right and then steadily turned counterclockwise. A hand reached through the grilled opening of the air vent to catch the bolts before they disengaged and fell to the floor. With a muted screech of rusty metal, the grating was forced off, angled sideways and pulled into the air duct. There was some scuffling, then, swinging out his legs, Dean wiggled free of the confining duct and dropped to the ground, his stocking feet hitting the concrete with soft pats. He stood in the blackness, trying to listen with his whole body. There was no sound, except for the thunderous beating of the heart in his chest.
Shielding the lens of the flashlight with his palm, Dean moved amid the boxes and shelves of the storage room, easily locating what he was assigned to find. Moving to the door, he prepared his tools and knocked on the wood just below the hinged inspection hatch, a small affair no larger than a few inches.
A surprised grunt came from the outside, followed by the scraping of a chair leg on stone. Then the hatch swung aside and a squinting face appeared in the opening framed by light. There was an almost musical twang and the sec man stumbled backward, a crossbow quarrel embedded to the fletching between his eyes.
A few seconds later the door swung open and Dean came out, pocketing one of J.B.'s lockpicks. A crossbow was dangling around his neck, along with a full quiver of quarrels. Sliding on his boots, Dean removed the dying guard's ring of keys and headed down the corridor.
The lock on the side door was already oozing oil, and the key worked silently. He pulled it aside, admitting a gust of cold air and the rest of the companions. Ryan patted the boy on the shoulder, Krysty returned his vest and blasters and J.B. took back his picks.
"This way," Mildred, directed consulting a map. "Two levels up, one corridor over. Third door."
"Guards?" Jak asked, knife and blaster at the ready.
"None," she replied. "We're coming in backward, remember?"
"Two on two coverage," Ryan said, the silenced 9 mm SIG-Sauer out and level. The bolt action Steyr SSG-70 was hiding in its usual position across his back. "Silent penetration, one yard spread. Doc on point, Jak back of him. I'll take the rear. Dean, J.B., Krysty and Mildred, take the crossbows."
"Arrows," Mildred said, tucking a crossbow between her thighs and, holding the string with both hands, cocked the weapon. The launching lever locked into position with a loud clack.
Dean handed them out. "Two quivers each."
The physician tucked a quarrel snugly into the notch. "Ready."
"Check," Krysty said, expertly holding the weapon slanted upward, a hand laid alongside the lever, but not actually touching. Metal blasters got stubborn with age as springs weakened. Wooden crossbows got feisty.
Doc holstered the LeMat and unsheathed his sword. The normally shiny blade was a dull gray from a mixture of ash and bone glue. Perfect for nightcreep work.
"So let us do the deed which must be done," he said quietly, "dark and bloody, this cold night."
Staying near the walls to retard visibility, the companions swept through the deserted halls of the Citadel, advancing down corridors, up stairs and through spacious rooms lavishly decorated. They meet with no resistance.
In a chilly corridor lit only by hanging oil lamps at both ends, Ryan raised a hand and closed it into a fist. Everybody stopped. Then he lifted a finger and twirled it in a circle. The others gathered close.
"This feels wrong," he said. "They must have everybody out searching for us."
"Idiots," Jak agreed, snowy hair masking his features.
"Then they took the bait about the gasoline tanks," Dean said.
"Appears so."
"Or this is another trap," Ryan countered, feeling the tiny hairs on the back of his neck rise. "I don't trust the heirs any more than I do the slaves. Haven't meet this many crazy lying bastards since those folks in Maine."
Suddenly, Krysty sliced the air with a flat hand and conversation ceased. The ceiling above them was vibrating slightly, making the hanging lanterns twitch at the end of their chains. The noise steadily increased until the ceiling rumbled with the sound of marching, then it briskly faded away in the direction they were heading.
"That was a freaking army," J.B. said, tucking his glasses more firmly onto his nose as a prelude to combat. "The heirs must have called in the reserves."
"Leave?" Dean asked.
If we could get past the wall without Leviathan," Ryan said, "we would already be gone. We're in for the full count, boy."
Krysty spread the map flat on the floor and Jak brought a lamp closer.
"Any way to circle past the bedchambers and reach the armory from the other side?" Ryan asked, studying the old map.
"We can cut through the garage," Krysty replied, pointing the way.
Won't they be expecting that?" Dean asked wornedly.
"It's too small for Leviathan," Ryan said. "Only bikes and such there. Nothing a prisoner could use to escape."
"Hell, there's not even anything there we want now, J.B. added. "Just a place to go through."
A sec man in old worn sneakers stepped around the corner, the rubber soles noiseless on the stone floor. He was holding a steaming mug in both hands and gasped when he spied the group huddled around the map on the floor. Doc lunged, stabbing him through the throat with his sword, the blade slicing through to the other side. The mug dropped from nerveless fingers, and Mildred caught it in midair. Hacking for air, the guard stood there, motionless with the pain. Jak moved behind him and thrust a leaf-shaped blade upward into the base of the head where the spine met the skull. Then he twisted the knife and the guard went limp as if a switch had been thrown. As they lowered the body to the floor, Dean was amazed at the lack of blood from the attack and filed the move away for future use.
Flat against the wall, Ryan hissed for their attention and held up two fingers, then pointed around the corner. J.B. and Doc moved out of the way and let the others bunch together. Ryan directed Krysty and Jak to go left, Mildred and Dean to the right. They nodded agreemeiit. Taking a breath and holding it, Ryan held up one finger, then two, then three. In unison, they stepped around the corner.
The two sec men, lounging in front of a door, turned at the sudden movement and a knife handle sprouted from the forehead of one, while the other staggered about, his chest full of quarrels. The companions converged upon th
e guards and disposed of them quietly.
Going to the door, J.B. listened, heard voices and went to the another. Unlocking the door showed it was a utility closet full of mops and buckets. The bodies were dragged inside and he locked the door to hinder their discovery.
"Double time," Ryan whispered, taking the point position.
Mildred stopped him. "Somebody is getting tortured in there," she said, tilling her head, "and I recognize the voice.
Ryan scowled. "Eugene?"
"Sounds like Shard."
Another agonized moan wafted to them from inside, then there was the cracking sound of a whip.
"I'LL NEVER TELL where Ryan is," Shard gasped, choking for air between each word. The chains clamped about his wrists pressed deep into the flesh, cutting off circulation. His hands had gone numb hours earlier. They were the only part of him that didn't hurt. He tried again to rest his feet on the ground and failed. A nearby brazier glowed with heat, iron rods thrust deep into the pile of red coals, and the slave wondered how much longer his captor would wait before using them.
"For the hundredth time, I don't care about him!" Anders stormed. "How do you turn on the great machine? You must know! Tell me!"
"Only...Ryan..."
The whip laid fire-across his bare back, and Shard bit back a cry. "That the best you got?" he mumbled weakly. "My sister...hits harder...."
The lieutenant tossed aside the whip and grabbed an iron rod. The end glowed white-hot and sizzled against bare flesh. The pain was beyond words, engulfing Shard's whole body. He screamed.
"You're a fool!" Anders growled. putting the iron back into the coals.
"Tell me and you live! I don't work for the heirs, I want this yule for myself! But I need the tank to kill them."
Then his tone softened, and he raised a cup of wine to Shard's cracked lips. "Show me how to operate the great machine, and you can be my mechanic." He smiled. "You'll have women, food, anything you want!"
Shard spit into the cup. "Anything except freedom."
Throwing the cup aside, Anders grabbed the whip. "I want to know where they got the tank," he demanded, walking around the chained man, striking him repeatedly. "And are there more of them? How do you operate the device that tells of the approach of other machines? And what other booby traps Does the vehicle have aside from the bomb on the belly hatch?" Anders dropped the whip. "My patience grows short, as does the time.
Tell me or die."
"Do it," Shard whispered, having trouble keeping his head erect. His strength was fading, and soon the pain would claim him. "Kill me. I'll never betray a friend."
"Friend?" Anders sneered, slapping him. "Nonsense. You never met him before the tower room."
"They treated me like a man," Shard whispered, blood dribbling from a broken nose, "not a slave. That is worth more than anything you offer."
"Oh, you'll soon beg to talk." The sec man pulled a medical instrument into view. The blade gleamed in the light of the brazier. "This is one of Eugene's favorites. I've seen him use it on many subjects. Now it's my turn."
"I escaped once," Shard said out of the blue, playing his last card. Raw desperation flooded his body with the strength to speak clearly.
Lowering the instrument, Anders stared.
"Got out. Over the wall. Made it to the forest and got captured by the scavengers. They tortured me, too. Had to bed a female mutie, a stickle, or else they would have roasted me for their dinner." Shard squinted as if ttying to focus his blurred vision.
"Always thought you looked familiar. Are you my son?"
With an insane snarl. Anders threw away the medical probe and drew a dagger from his belt when the door behind him opened unexpectedly.
"I told you not to disturb me!" Anders screamed.
"Too bad," Ryan said clearly.
His face distorting into a rictus of shock, the lieutenant turned, fumbling for his blaster, and a flurry of quarrels slammed into his chest. The impaled sec man grappled with empty air and slumped onto the brazier, his clothes instantly igniting. Burbling screams, the man tumbled to the floor, the gushing blood from his wounds extinguishing the burning uniform.
Dean bolted shut the door, as J.B. removed the chains. Krysty and Mildred eased Shard to the floor.
Doc started to look for anything to serve as bandages.
In no great hurry, Ryan walked over and shot the twitching officer once in the head with a silenced 9 mm round.
"Not real..." Shard breathed. "You're not here...."
Mildred gave him a sip from her canteen. "We're real enough," she said softly, "and you're coming with us."
"Freedom," Jak stated, massaging the chafed wrists. The skin was purple and cold, not a good indication, but it started responding to the ministrations.
"Dying..."
"Oh, you're beaten badly," Mildred said, peeling back the bloody clothing to examine the wounds. Doc handed her a relatively clean towel, already torn into strips, and she began to bind the worst of the cuts. "But you aren't going to die. That fellow must have been afraid to go too far and kill you before he got the information."
"Information you didn't have," Ryan said. "Why'd you do it?"
The battered lips formed a smile. "Buy you a chance..."
"Bought yourself more than that," Ryan announced. "After we ace the heirs, you got a seat in Leviathan for as long as you want."
A ragged cough shook the man, flecks of blood staining his lips. "Too weak...never make it..."
"I'll carry you," Doc said, dropping his backpack of supplies. He tucked his swordstick into the bundle, making sure it was secure.
Done with the bandaging, Mildred waved him on. Easing his arms under the man., Doc lifted Shard seemingly without effort. "Come, sir, this way to the egress."
"No!" Shard whispered, reaching out a trembling hand. "Don't go to the courtyard! Canvas tent...trap. It's not there...."
"We know," Ryan said, placing the dead sec man's revolver into Shard's grip. "Leviathan is in the armory."
He held the weapon tightly, trembling as if it weighed more than the whole world. "No, the tower."
"What do you mean?" -
"It's in...the tower."
"Which tower? Not Eugene's tower?" Krysty asked, hoping she heard that wrong.
A weak nod.
"Are you sure?" Mildred asked, touching his forehead to see if the man was delirious with fever.
"No mistake?"
Another nod. "Heard them talking. Said it was last place you would look."
"They got that right!"
"Gaia, it's on the other side of the ville!" Krysty cursed, her hair curling wildly. "Where the riots are.
Ryan picked up Doc's pack of supplies. "Then we better get moving. Time is against us now."
"What about our deal to kill the heirs?" Dean asked. "We're so close to their room!"
Starting for the door, his father said, "Deal's off. The bastard rebels lied to us about having control of Leviathan. They can go kill the heirs themselves. It's not our problem anymore. We're going to get our vehicle and leave this rad-blasted pit."
"Not good," J.B. said, shifting his backpack of homemade explosives. "This isn't good."
"Nothing's ever...good," Shard remarked. "Only different levels of shitty."
Chapter Eighteen
His longblaster slung over a shoulder, barrel down to protect the insides from the dew, a lone sentry stood trembling slightly in the cold. His brick kiosk was alongside the main road leading to Novaville, and the thick walls helped cut the wind some, but not much. He knew there used to be glass in the windows, but a wad of C-4 removed it all, plus the sec man inside, and only the sentry had been replaced. It was too difficult to make glass these days, was what the quartermaster said. But the sentry believed the lack of glass served the dual purpose of keeping him cold, and thus more alert, and saved supplies. Why put in expensive glass that would only be blown out again in the next attack? The cheap bastards. He heard somewhere that glass deflected b
ullets, so it would actually be helping to protect the man who protected the ville. This far away, the high perimeter walls of the yule were only visible during the day, and then only as a thin line of black cutting across barren fields and the smooth black macadam of the main road. A misnomer if ever there was one, because this was it for roads. It was all they needed, and more than they wanted.
A stove made out of cinder blocks and filled with glowing coals radiated waves of heat that the gusting wind nullified. Stamping his boots, he unsuccessfully fought back a yawn. An old brittle piece of plastic with holes cut for head and arms served him as a poncho against the night mists. It didn't work very well, and he longed for the day when he would reach the vaunted rank of corporal and get one of those fine bearskin coats. Now that would protect a man just fine.
The belt buckled outside his poncho was looped with leather strands to hold cartridges for the rifle, and his hip bulged from a single gren. On a shelf was a plastic toolbox, the lid sealed shut with candle wax. That was for emergencies only, and it hadn't been used for months, the last time being for those fragging bikers bastards. They had almost made it halfway up the main road before dying. Damn dumb asses. Between the unclimbable mountains, the cliffs and the cannibal scavengers, Novaville was impregnable. But then, his job wasn't to fight off invaders, but merely live long enough to sound the alarm. Grim work, but better than patrolling the mine, or gutting slaves on the execution dock.
A low rumble, like far-off thunder, sounded, and he went to the window for a look. But the sky seemed clear, stars bright, with no sign of the low yellowish clouds that marked another acid rainstorm. Then something caught his attention on the horizon. Far down the road, past die first set of traps, near the bargaining gate was a dark shape moving his way. Cursing his lack of binocs, the sentry squinted to see. The object seemed too tall for a pack of bikers, but could be a truck. Didn't see many of them these days, and good luck for the driver. The heirs would confiscate the vehicle and give the sec man a reward of any women on board, and a percentage of any booze or tobacco. This could be his lucky night!
In a silent explosion of wood, the vehicle plowed through the gate and bounced onto the road proper. Immediately, a dozen concealed crossbows released a flurry of barbed arrows streaking across the asphalt at knee level, more than enough to blow even the toughest predark military tires. The black shape didn't even pause under the assault.