by Stuart Slade
Brown’s Lane, Coventry. For three long years the spiritual home of Jaguar Cars had lain idle, the last car had rolled off the production line here in 2005 and the firm had moved its operations elsewhere, fifty-four years after production had started. It seemed that the Jaguar’s parent company at the time, Ford, cared little for tradition. Now the idle car factories of Coventry, Birmingham and Dagenham had found a new role; while the Land Rover factory at Solihull would essentially be doing the same thing, just swapping civilian production for purely military models, the other car factories would be supporting the war effort rather differently. There was help arriving for that, the company’s new Indian owners were sending over plans for a light armored car that would fit the existing production line well.
The roads around the Brown’s Lane factory were jammed with low-loaders carrying various versions of the FV430 tracked armored personnel carrier and wheeled Saxon carriers. They’d all been brought from the nearest rail freight yard, itself hastily restored to operation and now filled with military vehicles on flat-bed trucks. The FV430s were vehicles that had either been in storage, or in various museums up and down the country. What they all had in common was that they had not gone through the ‘Bulldog’ upgrade. While BAE Land Systems was fully occupied building newer vehicles like the Challenger 2, Warrior and AS90, car factories like Brown’s Lane would take up much of the slack involved in upgrading existing vehicles. Eventually once the tooling from India was in place they would also begin to manufacture military vehicles.
Until then, each FV430 which arrived at Brown’s Lane would be stripped down, worn components replaced. The old Rolls Royce K60 engine would be removed and replaced by a modern Cummins B series engine with new sand and dust filters. Once that was done, Israeli designed appliqué armor and a Remote Weapons Station would be added, though not the weapon itself; the army was still debating as to whether the tried and trusted Browning Heavy Machine Gun, or a new FN designed weapon, the BRG-15, firing a 15.5 x 115 mm cartridge should arm the FV432s. The later was more powerful and likely to do more damage to a baldrick, but the Browning had the advantage of already being in service in some numbers. The last thing the British Army needed right now was another cartridge on top of the 9mm, 5.56mm, 7.62mm, 8.59mm and 12.7mm rounds it already employed. The armorers had enough of a headache as it was.
The Saxons, some of which were the Saxon Patrol variant that had replaced the last of the Humber ‘Pigs’ in Northern Ireland, were coming in for a slightly different upgrade. At the moment they were somewhat lacking in offensive capability, a single 7.62mm GPMG was considered inadequate against baldrick attacks. Like the FV430s they would be fitted with an RWS, though for the moment they would be issued to units assigned to the Home Guard rather then being sent out to Iraq. The Saxons, as it turned out, were far easier to work on and even better, once finished, they could be driven to where they were needed, rather than taking up valuable rail cars and transporter trucks.
Just to make life even easier, the workers who had been made redundant by the collapse of MG Rover and the contraction of the car industry in general in the West Midlands had flocked to get jobs in the new defense related concerns that had grown up. To its immense relief and surprise the government had not needed to use its new powers to direct labor to where it was needed. To protect these vital factories from potential baldrick attack a company of the Home Guard had been formed from the workforce. It was now a common sight to see workers who were not on shift drilling in the car park of Brown’s Lane and the other former car factories in the area. At the moment all they had were L85A3s, a semi-automatic version of the standard SA80 intended for use by cadet forces, though the Brown’s Lane Company had somehow managed to get hold of a Carl Gustav and a few rounds of HEAT and HE. How, was probably a question better not asked.
“Well, we’re certainly back in business.” The Works Manager looked at the sight below with satisfaction. Behind him, the representative from Tata Motors nodded with satisfaction. The purchase of the company by the Indian Tata group had caused extreme concern over whether the plant would just be taken off to India and the workers thrown out but the Tata management had gone out of their way to prove otherwise. Then, The Message had come and national identity had become very unimportant. Oh, there were a few countries still who were predictably refusing to join the rest of the world’s fight, North Korea being prominent amongst them, but India had thrown all its resources into the human struggle against their enemies. One small part of that effort was this plant here.
“I think it’s time for lunch, don’t you?” The Tata representative had a twinkle in his eye when he asked. The British had always had a love-affair with what they called Indian Curry and Tata had brought in staff who knew how to make it properly. As a result, it was quietly acknowledged that the Jaguar works canteen was the best Indian Restaurant in the Midlands. And with food rationing back, a good mid-day meal was something to be treasured. As long as it didn’t delay the work on the factory floor of course.
(Thank’s to Starglider and Jan who provided the second and third parts respectively.)
Chapter Thirty Nine
Outer Ring, 7th Circle of Hell
The voice was urgent, omnipresent. Corporal Tucker McElroy! Do you hear me?
I hear you! McElroy screamed back in his mind. It wasn’t because he realized that he was being contacted via some sort of telepathy; writhing in the river of lava for last month or so had burned his lungs so badly that he couldn’t speak, so this was his only option.
You were killed at Hit, correct?
Affirmative! McElroy bellowed back. I’m burning up here, so please, whoever you are, get me out of here. McElroy remembered his manners at the last moment. Pardon my bluntness!
Not at all. My name is kitten. I work for the government. We have been trying to contact all U.S. military personnel killed in action during the first battle with the baldricks. So are you in a fire? Is there a way out?
It’s some sort of river, of lava. I’ve tried to get out but I never make it very far. There are baldrick guards on the banks, sooner or later, one of them comes along and pushes me back in. Are you taking a survey or something?
Please climb out now. We’re sending in some cover for you, but you need to be on survivable terrain.
That galvanized McElroy. He would have double-blinked, if his seared eyelids were still functional. He half-leaped, half swam and broke the surface of the lava stream. It wasn’t quite liquid, wasn’t quite solid and it was certainly more substantial than flames, so with great effort, he could make his way through it. He didn’t know how big the river of flaming lava was, but he couldn’t see the far shore, in fact he couldn’t see anything, his eyeballs were also boiled into uselessness. In any case, he’d never ventured out far enough to try. Most people, including him, spent their burning time marshaling enough strength to crawl out onto the shores of the river for a brief respite. Then, a baldrick would come along, stab the unfortunate soul with a trident, or perhaps its claws, and hurl the screaming creature back into the lake.
McElroy lost count of how many times that had happened to him.
On my way! McElroy shouted. I’ll let you know when I’m out.
It didn’t take long. Panic-driven instinct combined with this glimmer of hope, and he scrambled out of the flames and onto the rocky shores of the lake. Unmindful of the sizzling hunks of flesh and fat that he left on the ground behind him, he crawled ten meters before he collapsed.
Clear!
He just wanted to close his eyes, but of course, he couldn’t. He wanted to breathe again, but he couldn’t. The agony slowly dimming and to his amazement, his sight was already beginning to return. Dim and shadowy certainly, but returning. That wasn’t necessarily a good thing, he noted with detached amusement that a demon had already spotted him and was closing quickly, bellowing some pointless taunt or curse. Tucker couldn’t tell, because his ears were long gone.
Had he dreamed the whole thing? Hall
ucinating on top of burning in Hell? He would’ve smiled at the thought, but he already brandished a skeleton’s grin. Maybe when his lips grew back, he’d smile again. Now, though, the demon was nearly upon him.
Oh well, back to the lake for him.
Then, the demon did a very strange thing. He was perhaps three meters away when he stopped. McElroy felt a distinct throbbing, a rapid whump-whump-whump of displaced air passing over him. He turned his head the other way.
A mini-Hellmouth dominated the background nearby. In front of it stood four uniformed soldiers, unmistakably United States Marines. They were all firing, unloading their weapons into the demon. It was quite thoroughly dead when they were done.
Corporal! Have the team arrived? kitten spoke in his mind. The voice was in distinct pain, as though someone were squeezing all the air from kitten’s lungs. To have that kind of effect within thoughts…what the hell was kitten going through to do this?
And how! They just smoked a baldrick. Merely thinking the words gave him strength enough stand up. He mused that he must look like Anakin Skywalker at the end of the most recent Star Wars movie, all burnt and freakish. He turned to the four marines and saluted, and they matched him. One of them, stepped forward and began to speak, his facemask wobbling slightly as he jaw moved beneath.
He was still deaf, so he couldn’t hear what the Marine was saying. Hurry, please! Send them back! kitten suddenly squealed.
McElroy held up his hand. Pointed to his ears, shook his head. Pointed at the marine, then the portal, and made shooshing motions. The marine stopped, nodded, and passed what looked like an old-fashioned rifle with a wooden stock and a rucksack to McElroy. The four Marines vanished into the portal, which itself closed a second later. He looked at the rifle, recognizing it as an M-1 Garand but with a bigger bore than any Garand he’d ever seen.
You’re on your own, Corporal, kitten said, voice weak and dim. Your orders are to evade and survive. You’re the among the first we’ve extracted and armed successfully, so you may be on your own for a while. I’ll contact you on a set schedule, its in the rucksack. Understood?
Affirmative. Thank you, kitten. Please pass along word to my family that I’m out and kicking. He didn’t get a reply, but that was alright. McElroy was already scanning the area. The wind was throwing dirt into his unprotected eyes, but he could already see better than just a few minutes than before.
The shoreline was deserted, aside from the baldrick corpse. The stream of lava stretched on for miles in each direction, but there was cover further inland, or so it appeared. He squinted; maybe it was a edge of a forest? Or tall grass? Or just a rocky outcrop? His vision was still too bad to tell. At any rate, it would leave him less exposed. He was like a piece of metal in a sand tumbler out here, and the fresh burn wounds were all singing “Ave Maria” as the grime and grit blasted him. They were healing fast though, he could feel his ears returning already.
Placing the Garand and rucksack down for a moment, he went over to the baldrick. It was dead all right, big holes blasted in it and even bigger ones where the bullets had exited the wounds. The monster had nothing he could use, except its trident of course. McElroy hitched his pack to his back, slung the Garand over his shoulder and took off, running up the shore towards what he could now clearly see was a forest.
Throne Room, Belial’s Palace, Tartarus
Belial’s throne room was, in many ways a microcosm of his lord’s. A mason would note that the columns were carved of adamantine rather than granite, and inlaid with gold and silver rather than sheathed with brass. A soldier’s eye would be drawn to the assorted barons in attendance; much of their forms were covered by burnished bronze plates, many set with gaudy jewels. At no other court in hell would a demon show such weakness as needing armor to protect themselves. Here in Tartarus the master proclaimed dominance through superior arms and the servants competed to show their devotion to his principles. A politician would ignore these trappings and focus on the occupant of the throne. The Count’s face was lined with the rage and exasperation of a master failed utterly by his servants. The skilled politician would look through this to recognize the desperation of a being that believes it is about to miss its only opportunity for survival.
Euryale’s eyes took in all of this as the great doors swung open and admitted her to the room, along with one final similarity to the His Infernal Majesty’s court - the gutted carcass of overseer Oodusjarkethat still cooling on the floor. If Count and King shared anything, it was a healthy respect for the demonic tradition of taking out ones frustrations on ones underlings. That’s the fourth one in as many days she thought. The interrogations were proving disastrous, not only had they failed to produce useful information but they had cut production to barely a third of its normal level. The lack of success along with Belial’s retribution was crippling the demon’s morale.
She strode forward into the throne room, flanked on the left by the long slithering form of Baroness Yulupki. As the most powerful of Tartaruan naga, Belial had charged Yulupki with preparing the chorus that would provide most of the power for the portal ceremonies. The first of the foreign naga had begun to arrive, borne on makeshift litters slung between pairs of Great Beasts, and the baroness’s already inflated pride had swelled to new heights as she began to drill her expanded chorus into harmony. Euryale was still technically in command of the portal opening, but it was a strained relationship at best. Yulupki wasted no opportunity to demonstrate her kind’s great superiority in psychic strength over the gorgons.
Euryale reached the dais and kneeled perfunctorily, but the naga was even quicker.
“Count Belial, my chorusss stands ready. The firssst of the foreigners are being broken in and I forssseee no problems in producing the level of energy you requesssted.”, Yulupki hissed eagerly.
She fancies herself a rival for the count’s favor thought Euryale, what a ridiculous notion. For a start, she has completely misjudged his mood.
Sure enough, Belial rose to his feet and rebuffed the naga. “And of what use is your snake pile when we have no idea where to strike? Four days! Half our time gone and still no answers. How difficult could it be? Truly you are the dregs of hell, if I cannot even count on you to wring a few simple facts out of an ample supply of apes!”
Yulupki drew back, coiling upon herself and seemingly genuinely bewildered to be the target of the Count’s ranting. “Sssire, we naga are ready to play our role… it was the gorgonsss, sssire, who were supposssed to drag the truth out of the humansss. It was Euryale who promisssed to find their armoriesss for you!”
It was an obvious move and Euryale was ready for it. “Sire, no demon can be blamed for the humans behaving so unreasonably. Something strange has gotten into them, something new, as it has their brethren on Earth. Your genius revealed the source of the earth human’s newfound power and the stratagem to eliminate it. I am sure that we can discover the source of the slave’s unexpected rebelliousness and counter it.”
The flattery went down smoothly and Belial sank back into his throne, his ranting abating to grumbling. “If that hag Deumos would just send me some succubi we’d have answers in no time.”
Euryale gritted her teeth. Every gorgon quickly became used to being told they were not as effective at persuading humans as succubi, much weaker fliers than harpies, less powerful witches than naga, poorer fighters than a common lesser demon. And yet there was truth in his words, something odd had happened to Deumos over the last few days. She’d become reserved, distant, as if she was watching and calculating rather than participating. That didn’t change the fact that few demons appreciated flexibility and fewer still valued intelligence over brute strength. Belial usually did and that was the one thing that made being his consort tolerable, but sometimes even he succumbed to the official propaganda that cast the gorgon race as a failed experiment. She had long since learned to bide her time and treat the other demon’s scorn as a blind spot to be exploited.
“Belial, succubi wo
uld not help. They’d get the humans talking all right, every single one would say whatever he thought the harlot wanted to hear. It would take weeks to sort out the sincere ones and even longer to find the useful ones.” The truth of her words was plain and the count slumped deeper into his throne.
Euryale paced in front of the dais, her tail lashing across the floor, thinking out loud. “Collective punishment isn’t working. The humans were already becoming inured to torture and now they think they can accomplish something by resisting. There are far too many to interrogate each one fully in the time we have. They now resist enthrallment so strongly that when we barb them repeatedly they go almost immediately from refusing to talk to saying whatever they think we want to hear.”
Her thoughts were interrupted by one of the barons speaking up. “With all the chaos out there we can’t afford to lose a significant number of humans anyway, who knows when we’d get fresh ones sent up.” Others began to whisper to each other and murmuring filled the chamber.