Shield (Bridge & Sword: Awakenings #2): Bridge & Sword World

by JC Andrijeski

  Smoke billowed from behind the hill in the direction of the 8th.

  Another dozen or so American troops had joined the first group as he and Cardesian conversed, but Balidor knew this to be only a show of strength.

  The real forces were already deployed, looking for Alyson.

  “You realize Seertown just got in the way of the front lines, don’t you, son?” Cardesian said.

  “I do,” Balidor said. “Please do not make it worse by declaring martial law. You must know by now that they will assume my cooperation. Whether I am named coward or traitor is immaterial for either of our purposes. They will look for a leader who does not cooperate with those who collar them and shoot their mates… and when that happens, things will get bloody fast. You have no idea what kind of grudge my people can hold when their families are involved.”

  At the other’s bored look, Balidor’s voice grew to an open warning.

  “Cardesian, this is no longer the old generation of peaceful seers you handily conquered before. You successfully changed our culture in that respect, at least. You’ve never really faced my people as a mobilized, military force.”

  Cardesian shrugged. “You should have better control over your people.”

  When Balidor turned away, Cardesian caught his arm.

  “Balidor, I am trying to help you!”

  He extricated his elbow. “Help us? How?” Seeing the anger in the human’s face, he quoted, “Can you make us care for that which is transient? Or only fear what might occur if we do not obey? You speak only for the blind, pointing and crying out.”

  “Do not quote your scripture at me as if I were a child!” Cardesian’s eyes held a dangerous light. “I know the same passages you do… likely better! Do you really wish to see your precious Bridge’s body displayed on the Castle walls, covered in blood and runes from your damned holy books? Give me another reason, Balidor. I dare you!”

  Balidor was genuinely surprised.

  “General,” he said. “I merely meant that my people won’t hear yours on this. Honestly, I doubt they’d hear me. They definitely won’t if they see me helping humans to collar the Bridge. She is a symbol here, as well.”

  “Symbol.” The human’s mouth tightened. “You think I’d betray my people for your goddamned symbol… you don’t know jack about humans, son.”

  Once again, Balidor noted, Cardesian seemed oblivious to the fact that Balidor had a good 350 years on him.

  The human shook his head. “I’ve made my offer. I can call SCARB off with a single transmission. Bring her to me, and I’ll help you hunt down the scum who did this to your city. I promise you that.”

  Balidor gave him a puzzled smile. “You speak as though I had such a thing in my power,” he said. “I assure you, I do not.”

  “Then get your holy man to do it!” Cardesian gestured towards Vash. “If he’s the big boss around here, have him tell the others––”

  “He’s not.”

  Cardesian took a step closer on the wet grass. For the barest instant, real anger flashed in his dark eyes. Then Balidor saw them change.

  A silvery sheen fogged the dark irises.

  A bare pause lived between one state of consciousness and the next.

  Then a different cadence came from those human lips.

  “Balidor, I would like to know what’s happened here.”

  Hearing the human’s voice shift, Balidor studied Cardesian’s light, his own cautious. It took him only seconds to ascertain that Cardesian himself was gone; his light had been hijacked by a seer’s.

  It occurred to Balidor that he knew with whom he was now speaking.

  “I have told you already,” he said. “I do not know.”

  “Where are the books?”

  “What?” Balidor said, genuinely confused. “What books?”

  “Who attacked you? Who are the Chinese aiding?”

  “We don’t know that either,” Balidor said. “We thought it was you.”

  “Convenient.” The Apostle took another step towards him. The silvery glow remained in his eyes. “Someone killed my man in the forest. Was that one of your ‘mystery attackers,’ as well?”

  Balidor shrugged with one hand, his voice flat. “My infiltrators tell me you killed my man first. Further, one of our people has disappeared. So tell me, General, why should I care what happens to yours?”

  Cardesian’s eyes grew more birdlike.

  “You honestly think I would do this? Kill hundreds of our people? I kept the front away from Seertown!”

  “Then why are you here now?” Balidor said.

  “I came for the books. I want what is mine. I want what she stole from me.”

  Balidor continued to measure the light of the other man, without getting too close. He knew Terian’s light well enough to recognize it, given all the work they’d done tracking him. He didn’t believe he was looking at a Terian body, per se; any human body and mind could be “borrowed” by a seer of sufficient structure.

  The conversation so far hadn’t illuminated much.

  Balidor watched the silvery eyes appraise him, as if the being behind them was doing its own mental inventory. The Apostle was still staring at him when two Sarks approached, dressed in Air Force uniforms.

  “Let’s see how our famed leader of the Adhipan likes his own collar,” Terian said through the human’s lips.

  Abruptly, Cardesian’s eyes snapped back to focus.

  The silver leached out of his irises, just before his voice changed, once more carrying a human accent from the United States. The general gestured towards the uniformed seers, his expression hard.

  “I’m tired of screwing around with this ice-blood.” He grunted, giving Balidor a hard stare. “Hook him to wires, if you have to. Just give me everything he has on that girlie of theirs. I want to know where she slept, who she fucked, who she was friends with, how she spent her time… any hidey-holes she might have. Find out where she might have kept any materials she stole in her intelligence raids.”

  He gave Balidor a hard look.

  “And find those human traitor friends of hers. Put a trace on her boy-toy, too. He might know something.” Adjusting his belt again, he gave Balidor a withering look. “Those materials didn’t get up and walk out of here…”

  He gestured up towards the House on the Hill.

  “And put out that fucking fire! She might have stuff hidden in there.”

  Balidor exhaled in relief, even as it occurred to him that Terian had done that, too. Apparently he was more of a sentimentalist when it came to ancient seer artifacts than Balidor would have credited him.

  The uniformed Sarks bowed. One, a bald male with a tattoo covering half of his face, Balidor recognized as well. His light had a particular bluish tint to it, and structures with an unusually delicate flavor.

  His seer name had been Starlen, once.

  Balidor glanced at Vash. Within a heartbeat, he made up his mind.

  Reaching for the top of his boot, he jerked out a narrow throwing knife.

  He flung it at the bald one’s chest.

  Starlen slid liquidly out of the way, but Balidor darted forward as the seer next to him reached for his sidearm. Using his arm and momentum, he slid his body so that the bald seer stood between him and the other’s gun.

  He grabbed hold of his hips and trip-threw him into his companion, pivoting his body. The two uniformed seers tangled into one another. It bought Balidor seconds, which was all he needed.

  Pulling a handgun from a holster inside his own jacket, he aimed it at the legs of the two watching seers, squeezing off three quick shots to bring them down.

  A fourth shot came from his left.

  He felt the bullet before he heard the sound.

  Then he was staring at the grass of the garden lawn, which was abruptly eye-level. Green shoots stuck up sideways as his breaths moved them in short bursts.

  Holding his side where the bullet impacted his armored vest, he rolled as someone grabbed his w
rist, sliding a syringe into the hinge of his elbow. He managed to punch whoever it was in the face.

  He broke the syringe with his fingers, jerking out the needle.

  When he looked up, at least five rifles pointed at his head.

  None were held by humans.

  Assessing their collective aleimi, Balidor went after the youngest.

  He took control of his light within seconds.

  The youngster swiveled his gun up, aiming it at the other uniformed seers. Balidor was about to speak, to try and reason with them––when Starlen shifted the direction of his own gun. Before Balidor could let out a sound, Starlen shot the young seer in the temple. The bullet exploded out the back end of his skull.

  Balidor watched, disbelieving, as the seer’s body crumpled.

  For a long moment, no one moved.

  Balidor continued to stare at the downed seer, doubting his eyes, having an emotional reaction even as his eyes flickered up to the murderer, Starlen. As much as Rooks and the Seven fought back and forth, they rarely killed other seers.

  Humans, yes––humans taken over by seer aleimi being the most common casualties in their longstanding intra-species war.

  But they didn’t kill one another. Their long lifespans and dwindling numbers made the consequences too dire. Their decreasing birthrates, particularly for those seers forced into some form of sight-slavery by humans, made it a matter of species survival. Such considerations transcended any factional struggles, no matter how bitter.

  It was one of those unspoken rules.

  After what had happened already that night and day, as well as losing Pradaj in the woods, Balidor found he couldn’t look away from yet another broken seer body, especially one so young.

  At Balidor’s shocked look, Starlen smiled, crinkling the tattoo on his face.

  He gave Balidor an apologetic shrug, just before he swiveled his organic rifle, aiming it at Cardesian.

  “Victory without quarter,” Balidor heard him mutter.

  He squeezed the trigger, dropping Cardesian with a single shot to the face. The human fell unceremoniously to his back, where he lay, nerves jerking.

  Starlen’s eyes returned to Balidor. He smiled again, and this time, it held more genuine friendliness. Pivoting the assault rifle skyward on an organic harness, he held out a hand.

  Balidor stared at it, unmoving.

  “Join us, Balidor,” Starlen said. “We’re not with Terian. Nor his human puppets. We serve the Bridge.”

  Balidor watched as two seers put guns on Eldrake, the seer who’d been guarding Vash.

  Once they’d separated the ex-Rook from his weapons, one of the youngsters cut the bonds holding Vash’s wrists behind his back. He used shears to cut the collar Vash wore next, flinging it to the grass, where another broke it with his heel.

  Starlen watched, then smiled at Balidor, his voice and eyes serious.

  “Are you hurt?” he said, politely.

  Balidor looked down at himself. Opening his shirt where the bullet hit, he saw it mashed to an unrecognizable shape on the organic vest. He’d have a hell of a bruise, but it wouldn’t be the first time.

  “No,” he managed.

  Starlen said, “There is no need for us to fight on opposite sides, brother. We want you with us. The days of collaring seers is over.”

  Balidor looked around the suddenly silent garden.

  Seers held guns on human troops.

  More seers appeared to be coming out of the woods. Balidor scanned their light, looking at their physical bodies in case he’d run into them while they were masquerading their lights to appear human. Most he didn’t recognize personally, although a few aleimic signatures were familiar. He noticed a large number appeared to be from the mountains.

  If so, they might even be unregistered under SCARB and the World Court.

  Balidor fought to process this, but his voice held nothing but bewilderment.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “We are the Rebellion,” Starlen answered.

  The sound of planes grew audible again overhead.

  Balidor stared up at the wings of passing aircraft. The planes themselves had their origins from places all over the globe, from different time periods all the way back to World War II. But it wasn’t the planes themselves that riveted Balidor.

  He paused on the colors they flew instead.

  A blue and gold sun broke the dull flash of metal and organic skin on each wing, pierced by a narrow, white sword.

  It was a symbol he hadn’t seen since the end of World War I.

  Balidor knew without scanning that seers, not humans, flew them.

  When the bombs began to fall that time, it wasn’t on Seertown, or its occupants. Balidor heard the noise and saw the fire when the first American transport went up in an explosion of metal and glass. The bombs came faster over the landing strip below the township, where the American fleet had parked several dozen of their planes following the attack.

  Within a few seconds, the explosions ran into one another, shaking the ground under Balidor’s feet.

  He watched, feeling a strange numbness fall over him.

  He knew somehow, that it was already too late.

  Today, the war had started for real.

  33

  WREG

  REVIK WOKE ABRUPTLY, in a state of panic.

  He wasn’t reassured when he found himself inside what appeared to be a cement and clay holding cell, lying on a cot in one corner. Someone had collared him, and cuffed his hands behind his back, locking them both at his wrists and his upper arms.

  His panic worsened.

  Pain rippled through his body, keening upwards, sharpening until he was gasping, half-groaning as he leaned his face into the cold cement wall. He fought to shield himself from it… then to force his way past it when the collar made that impossible… but the pain didn’t gradually lessen or die away like it had all those months before.

  Nor did it get worse.

  It remained, confusing him as he stabilized somewhere within it.

  He focused on his leg, seeking to distinguish the more physical pain of the gunshot wound, if only for a reference point. Somewhere in that confusion, he assessed what he’d been collared with.

  Standard issue, one-way.

  It wouldn’t do much for the separation pain. He’d have some physical pain if he tried to fight it, but nothing like the ones Terian used.

  He didn’t have time for this.

  It was the only thought that truly helped.

  He forced his eyes around the cramped space, feeling like a trapped animal as he assessed his options. The other corner had a spigot for water, along with foot platforms over a covered hole, like most of the common toilets in rural Asia. He doubted he could even get his pants off though, if relieving himself became an issue, not with the way his arms and wrists had been bound.

  Water dripped down an algae-covered wall.

  The wall itself looked solid enough. Even the clay parts looked hardened to the consistency of rock; they likely covered dirt or more cement, anyway. Given the way the walls bled, he was likely underground. The red and orange plants glowed under worm sac lights, making them appear faintly radioactive. The room reminded him of interrogation cells he’d witnessed in at least three different human wars.

  A rusted metal table stood in the center, decorated with dented folding chairs on either side. He could smell blood. The floor was stained dark near the table and by the opposite wall, where someone bolted a pair of rusted iron shackles to the whitewashed cement. Decorated with long cracks, the cement bled mud and water in a slow pulse from spiderweb lines that branched out and down from the water-damaged ceiling.

  His jaw hardened. He wondered how long he’d been in here.

  He didn’t remember arriving, so he must have passed out.

  Writhing out from under the thin blanket someone had thrown over him, he examined his leg. A thick organic cast now covered most of his thigh, attached to a spli
nt on a moveable joint. It was stiff, and he could tell the painkillers they’d given him were wearing off, but he should be able to stand, walk… maybe even jog if he really had to. Not for long, though, or very quickly.

  Inevitably, he thought of Allie.

  He fought back the pain that worsened in a sharp rise, leaning over the edge of the bed. Dragging himself up to a seated position, he stared around the cell, still fighting nausea.

  Desire slid to the forefront of his mind, in spite of everything. He wanted her, even scared out of his mind. He didn’t know how to reconcile the two feelings, so fought to blank out conscious thought.

  When that didn’t work, he tried simply to endure it.

  He’d known the bonding process would fuck with both of their heads. He hadn’t expected to have to deal with it without her.

  He had to get out of there. Now.

  Anger fought to replace fear. Mostly, he was angry at himself.

  He should have gone after Terian from the very beginning, before returning to Seertown. Hell, Galaith had already done most of the work for him. Killing whatever remained of that psychotic prick would have been relatively easy compared to what they’d faced in him before the Pyramid collapsed.

  He’d known Terian would target Allie.

  He’d practically promised Revik he would.

  And Allie, from what Revik could tell, had been up to something too.

  She’d been busy in the months he’d been gone. No one would tell him what, precisely, she’d been up to, but he read between the lines of enough with Jon and Cass to know that involved Terian, too.

  Whatever it was, Jon hadn’t liked it.

  Of course, Revik avoided Terian mainly out of deference to Allie herself. She’d asked him to stay away from him, to not seek revenge. She’d asked him to let the Adhipan deal with him. She’d been worried about him, and he understood that, but now he couldn’t for the life of him understand why he hadn’t refused her request.

  She would have forgiven him––eventually.

  The kid, on his own, they could have handled. Without Terian there, holding his leash, providing him resources, the kid would’ve been too young and isolated to do much damage before they brought him in. He wasn’t Syrimne, who’d been an adult seer with a whole army behind him.