The Atomic Sea

by Jack Conner

He turned on his heel and stalked away, the junior priests swept up in his wake. Avery shared a dark look with Janx and Hildra.

  “This ain’t good, Doc,” Janx said.

  “No,” Avery said. “No, it’s not.”

  He studied the press of captives all around him, nodding to the tall, thin man shoved up beside him, but the man didn’t respond, just stared off into space, his eyes made blank by exhaustion and terror. He stank of stale sweat and grime. Looking around at the others, Avery saw gloomy, hollow faces everywhere, and he wondered if the captives were to be sacrificed to Uthua or the arriving Collossum, perhaps as some sort of welcoming gift.

  “Now what?” said Hildra.

  Avery flicked his gaze to Layanna. She still screamed and twisted in pain from some source Avery could not determine. Was it the gel itself? Perhaps the wires and hoses that connected to the cell?

  “We rescue her,” he said.

  Janx rattled his chain. “Yeah, and how’m I supposed to do that?”

  Avery met his gaze. “The plan will work.” Then, suddenly worried, he glanced at Hildra. “It will work, won’t it?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Sure, it’ll work.”

  “It had better.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  They waited. Avery shifted uncomfortably, horribly aware of Layanna screaming and twisting in the center of the room. He wanted to go to her, wanted to help her, and he couldn’t stand being confined. The captives to the side of him sagged and cursed. The frustration of being so impotent seemed to have broken some of them, but many of the newer ones shouted at the priests and shook their chains defiantly.

  Suddenly, Janx stood straighter. His eyes moved to something over Avery’s shoulder. Avery turned. He saw nothing amiss, except for the chaos of the room with its struggling captives, gushing pools, sparking machines, bustling priests ... but there! There, if he was expecting to see it, a small dark shape, scurrying from a rail filled with slaves, to a statue beside a gurgling streamlet, across the floor ...

  Hildra whistled.

  Hildebrand adjusted his course and made for her, going as cautiously and quickly as he could. Avery’s heart leapt inside him to track the monkey’s progress, from slave station to hissing machine, to swing along under a bridge, then to a low couch slicked with blood and with a bottle of wine sitting to its side, surely Uthua’s absurdly casual lounge. At last Hildebrand scurried toward them—and leapt on Hildra’s shoulder.

  Never was Avery more glad to see anyone, man or animal.

  “Finally you earn your keep, you mangy bastard,” Janx said.

  Hildra’s face was tight and pale, and she used her eyes to direct Hildebrand to Janx’s hands. Hildebrand scrambled across to Janx’s shoulders, then down to his large hands. Into them he dropped a gleaming set of picks.

  Looking as tense as Avery had ever seen him, Janx picked the locks—deftly, hurriedly. One snapped free, then another. Avery thought he might pass out from relief. Next Janx freed Hildra and Avery. Avery rubbed his wrists gratefully.

  “I told you it would work,” Hildra said, but she sounded almost as relieved as he did. Of course, she’d been the one to most verbally abuse Avery’s plan to give the picks to Hildebrand. That way it wouldn’t matter if they were searched or their hands bound; he could drop the picks right in.

  “No sudden movements,” Janx whispered to Avery and Hildra, as they rubbed circulation back into their wrists.

  The captives to either side had witnessed their liberation, but they weren’t about to risk unfolding events by drawing attention to them. A few did whisper desperately in Janx’s direction, and he met their eyes and said, “Soon.”

  “Alright,” Avery said, eyeing the chamber. “How are we going to do this? Whatever we do, we have to hurry. Sheridan’s coming. Remember, Uthua said he would send for Layanna, and Sheridan was boarding a dirigible as we entered the Temple. She must be coming to bring Layanna to the Arena—to the Elder—so that it can kill her publicly once they have the information they need.”

  “She hadn’t left by the time we came in here,” Hildra said. “She was held up by the Elder.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll get bogged down in some sort of ceremony—but we can’t count on it.”

  Janx let Hildebrand scamper to the ground, where Hildra scooped him up.

  “Then let’s be about it, already,” the big man said.

  “We need a plan,” Avery said.

  Janx grinned. “I’ve got one.”

  “But—wait—”

  Janx moved away from the line of captives, bent over to avoid attention. Hildra went next, ripping off the can that hid her hook.

  Avery watched them go, marveling at their boldness. Should he follow?

  Janx tapped the shoulder of a passing priest, who spun about. Janx smashed him across the jaw with an enormous fist, and the priest lifted off the ground and flew backward. When he landed, Janx knelt over him, and as he grabbed a set of keys Avery realized why Janx had selected that particular priest. Janx flung the keys to the line of slaves, and a cheer went up.

  “Go to it, lads!” Janx said.

  Chaos broke out.

  The room was large and hectic, but several priests saw what had happened and rushed toward the slaves that were freeing themselves. A couple held staffs that sparked on their ends, like ornate cattle prods. Others reached into their robes and pulled out guns. Several were of odd design and Avery wondered if the priesthood possessed extradimensional technology.

  Janx dodged a strike from one priest’s sparking lance, grabbed the weapon in both hands, tore it loose, and kicked the priest away. Another rushed up, and Janx stabbed the weapon at him. It struck the fellow in the chest, and he erupted into green flames—and began to dissolve. Janx hit a third priest in the belly with the butt of the lance on his backswing, then smacked the first one in the face with the shaft, sending him reeling into a pair of priests who’d just been raising their guns. Janx leapt for them.

  Hildra tackled the feet of one of the priests, rolled out from under him and slashed him across the throat with her hook. Even as he flopped and floundered, spurting inky blood, she wrenched his gun free and shot another through the skull.

  Avery, stunned by the suddenness of it all, looked for a way to help. Darting forward, he shoved the back of a priest coming up on Hildra from behind, unbalancing him and giving Hildra time to recognize the danger and kill the priest, opening up his guts with her hook.

  By this time a dozen of the slaves had freed themselves, and more were being loosed by the moment. They leapt on priests and wrestled away their weapons. Several were shot, stabbed or melted, but the survivors were not deterred.

  Avery’s gaze strayed to the Altar. To Layanna. He knew he wasn’t much use in a fight, but there was something he could do. While the others were occupying the priests, he had to get her out of there.

  Legs trembling, he wove through the chaos toward the Altar. He stepped around a priest fighting a former captive, dodged a hurtling body—he wasn’t sure whose—and pressed forward. He kept his head down and his feet fast.

  He stopped at the line of machines that ringed the Altar and studied them. They were bigger than he’d thought, huge and bulky. Bits and pieces hummed and sparked, and several seemed to vibrate. He could feel the throbbing in his feet. It all seemed unstable to him. Jury-rigged.

  Various hoses and pipes snarled across the floor from the machines, then vanished upward into Layanna’s cell, or aquarium, huge and banded in brass, filled with unearthly chemicals. Inside it, she twisted and screamed soundlessly. I’m coming, Avery thought. Just hang on a little longer.

  He crouched over one of the hoses and began sawing on it with his stolen dagger. A priest saw him, broke off his attack on a freed woman and rushed over, reloading his pistol as he went. Avery sawed through the hose and lifted it just as the priest raised his gun. The yellowish fluid from the hose blasted the priest right in the face. He staggered back,
clutching at his cheeks, which came away in slimy strips. Steam trailed up from his head, and his eyes ran like jelly from their sockets. He toppled backward and didn’t move again, save to deflate.

  Avery snatched up the pistol—delicately, making sure there was no fluid on it—and shoved it through his belt.

  He dashed from hose to hose, sawing through them, sweating more with each one, and letting the fluid spew across the floor, where it steamed and hissed. It stank like rotting meat crossed with battery acid, and he had to resist the urge to retch. Sweat stung his eyes. Steaming rivers of the fluid ran across the floor, pooling and creating barriers for combatants to navigate around. Where he could Avery aimed the streams at groups of priests.

  As the last hose was cut, he looked up to see a gratifying sight: Layanna lay pressed against a grime-streaked glass panel, stirring weakly in the now-emptied aquarium. She looked too weak to free herself.

  Avery wished Janx or Hildra were at hand, but they were off fighting and rallying the former sacrifices against the priests. Avery saw bands of former captives pour from the Altar Room and spread violence through the rest of the Temple. Screams and howls echoed from down the halls.

  Having no choice, Avery grabbed one of the hoses snaking from Layanna’s cell and began hauling himself up, hand over hand. He grunted and strained. At times he thought he would simply fall off, but he began to make progress.

  Closer, closer ...

  The cable shook beneath him. He glanced down. A particularly large priest scaled the hose right under him, knife clamped between his razor-sharp teeth. His red-tinged gills pulsed angrily. His bulging eyes glared hate. He ascended, swift and sure.

  Avery reached for his gun, but the priest’s ascent shook the cable too violently, and Avery, with only one hand on the cable, the other going for the gun, nearly fell off. Hastily he grabbed on with both hands.

  The priest closed the distance. Avery climbed. The Altar seemed very far below now. The priest was faster than he was, and gaining. Avery feared any moment now he would feel one of its red-tinged claws grab his foot.

  Avery reached the aquarium, pulled himself up, fingers digging into the edges of a brass band, and fought for purchase with his toes. A clawed hand swiped at him, skidding off his shoe. The priest clawed again, and Avery kicked the hand away, nearly losing his balance on the thin ledge. The hand reached up one more time—

  Avery shot the priest through the head. The man fell away, seeming to spin forever before he struck the floor. Gasping, Avery sagged back against the aquarium.

  He blinked and got himself together. Desperate, he searched the side of the aquarium. It must have some means of entry.

  There! A brass doorway with ornate hinges and a subtle knob. He scaled over to it, all the time telling himself not to look down. He reached the door, fired a round into the locking mechanism, and wrenched it open.

  Gas billowed past his face, hot and foul-smelling, and he swung away from it. It continued to pour out, a great billowing cloud, and he could feel its heat, smell its briny, acidic stink. It took forever to empty. At last it stopped gusting out, and, sucking in a deep breath, he climbed into the aquarium. Heat enveloped him. Steam hissed around his shoes. Touch nothing.

  Quickly, he scrambled over to Layanna. From here the aquarium looked like a huge multi-faceted insect eye staring down on the Altar and the chaos of the chamber, and Layanna lay at the apex of the eye. He shrugged off his jacket, wrapped it around her, and lifted her up. She was heavier than she looked, though, and he couldn’t help a grunt. She stirred in his arms but did not speak or open her eyes. What had they done to her?

  He waddled, half-climbed back to the door, then, very delicately, leaned out and grabbed a cable. With one arm securing Layanna to him, and her arms half-consciously around his neck, he swung out and down. Part of him felt like some hero in a picture show, and he almost smiled as he settled down to the ground, the maiden safe in his arms. Then he looked up and saw that several of Layanna’s phantasmagorical tentacles had clung to the cable, helping him.

  “You’re awake,” he said, staring down at her face. She looked flushed and fevered, and a strand of blond hair hid one brilliant blue eye. The other stared up at him, and a feeble smile trembled on her lips.

  “Francis,” she said.

  At the word, something happened in his chest. He had the overwhelming urge to kiss her, but as he pressed his lips close to hers she put a hand against him and said, “Let me wash first.”

  The slimy gel still coated her. It had even soaked through the jacket he’d wrapped her in so that he could feel a burning on his fingertips.

  He laid her down gently. Around them raged chaos, but for now, for this one moment, they had a sphere of calm.

  “There’s an Elder coming,” he said.

  “I can feel it.” There was a rasp in her voice that might be fear.

  “Is there any way to fight it?”

  She smiled sadly. One of her hands rose to trace his jaw, but she stopped short. “No,” she said. “I’m afraid this might be the end. All we can hope for is to send off the message before it arrives. Though ... there might be time for you, in the confusion—”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  A look of dread—even shame—crossed her face.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “They ... got it. They got it out of me.”

  He couldn’t breathe. “The plans for the Device?”

  “No. The location of the Black Sect. They pulled it out of me, out of my mind. I had no way to resist. They’re planning an attack even now. I must warn them. And ... give them the plans for the Device. I must ... get to the Altar.”

  “Of course. But you’re so weak ...”

  She grimaced—it might have been a smile of sorts—and struggled to her feet. The jacket fell to the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  The sudden shuffle of footsteps made Avery look up, and saw that a group of priests had seen Layanna. As one, they rushed toward her.

  “Layanna, I think—”

  She pushed him to the floor and changed. Her amoeba-facet crossed over, superimposed over her, and spread to engulf a large area. Strange lights radiated out from her, illuminating the faces of the oncoming priests. They hesitated, but only for a moment, then charged in, their lances sparking. She seized several in stinging tentacles and squeezed. They screamed and writhed in her grip. Blood sprayed. Some stabbed her with their lances, lighting her up at the places of impact, and she screamed inside her sac, her phantasmagorical flesh withering and flaming where she was hit. Her tendrils shot out, grabbed up the offending priests, and squeezed. Dripping bone shards jutted from between her coils. Others she passed poison into, or electrocuted, or set afire. The worst fate was reserved for those she drew within her sac and began to feed from.

  Avery made himself watch as their bodies dissolved and began to swirl among and through her organelles. As she absorbed them, she grew visibly stronger, her colors more vibrant, her sac larger. She floated in the midst of it all, serene, her hair billowing around her as if in an underwater current.

  She met Avery’s gaze once, nodded, then—her tentacles dragging her apparently weightless amoeba-body—climbed the dais toward the Altar. Surrounded by violence and with the Elder on the way, she plunged her tentacles down through the black slab and unleashed a stream of power. Avery felt the charge in the air. She straddled the Altar in her amoeba-self, but more than that, she had plugged into it. She would commune with her comrades in the Black Sect, transmit her knowledge to them, and her warning.

  Avery felt a spring of hope well inside him, but he didn’t let himself think about it. He shot another priest who trained some bulky, surely extradimensional weapon on Layanna. He had to protect her while she transmitted the plans. This was the most critical time of their whole plan. Everything depended on her getting off that message.

  Avery shot another priest, then another. Gods, what have I become? he thought, even as h
e fired at the second one. I’m a doctor, not a killer! And yet he didn’t stop firing for a moment.

  All around him, former sacrifices tore into the clerics that had abused them with an almost mad glee, seeming to revel in the carnage. Janx and Hildra fought not far away, both covered in blood, much of it their own. They looked weary and grim, but they left a trail of bodies in their wake.

  Suddenly, submachine gun fire split the air, organized and overbearing. Avery spun to see, coming from one of the two main entrances to the Altar Room, a phalanx of Octunggen troops.

  Chapter 23

  Damn it, Avery thought. And we were so close. Disappointment drove the breath from his lungs.

  The Octunggen laid waste all about them, submachine guns spitting fire. Slaves and captives pitched over backward, blood jetting across stone floors already heaped with bodies. The Octunggen stormed in, a great black wedge, visors and shields glimmering with light, and all opposition crumpled in their path.

  Sheridan strode at the phalanx’s head, submachine gun clutched in firm hands. She fired, gun smoke coiling up, her square jaw clenched firmly. She shot one mutant down, then blew half of another’s head off. With every shot she took she advanced further into the room. Her eyes speared Layanna, taking it all in, and Avery had no doubt she guessed what was going on, guessed how high the stakes were.

  Avery picked his way down the steps of the tiered dais, stepping over and around bodies as he went. When he reached the floor, he put his back to one of the carapace-like machines, shielding himself from Sheridan’s gaze. His heart beat like a drum. Screams echoed all around him.

  Above, Layanna glowed, pulsating. She floated in her sac, eyes closed in concentration and surrounded by otherworldly lights, even as her tentacles stabbed down through the surface of the Altar and vanished from view. How much more time did she need?

  Avery glanced around the edge of the machine, trying to get a glimpse of Sheridan. The Octunggen advanced, step by step. When their submachine guns ran out of bullets, the soldiers threw them down and withdrew pistols or shock-prods. With grim determination, they continued their march toward the Altar. Sheridan tossed down her own submachine gun—empty—and pulled out a pistol. It was the same one she had shot Layanna with, Avery saw, or one identical to it, overly long and odd-looking, certainly extradimensional.