by J. J. Green
These ones did not flee in terror.
She admired their bravery in the face of an attacker unaffected by pulse rounds, but she continued to fire, aiming around Arthur’s bulk. Wright’s pulses were also flying out.
There could be only one conclusion.
The Crusaders who remained standing by the time they reached them quickly fell to Arthur’s sword.
A closed door stood to the right. Behind it, no doubt, was the Dwyr and more of her guard.
Movement at the end of the passageway caught Taylan’s attention.
She looked over just in time to see a woman and a boy disappearing around a corner.
It was the Dwyr’s companion from the launch ceremony! And the boy had been there too. Rumor said the Dwyr had a son. She guessed that had to be him, and the woman was trying to take him to safety.
Though a surviving successor to Dwyr Orr could mean trouble in days to come, she couldn’t help feeling relieved he might get away. She could never have killed him, but she suspected Arthur might have in his berserker rage.
“How do we get in?” she asked Wright.
“There are a couple of possible ways,” he replied. “I’ve let command know we’ve found her. They can send someone to cut through it, or if we have control of the ship, we can override the security.”
Arthur raised his sword.
“Watch out!” she warned Wright.
Arthur plunged it into the security panel. The blade sank in several inches, and the panel sparked and smoked.
“Looks like he can’t be electrocuted either,” the major remarked. “That won’t work,” he added, his comm now external. “Breaking the security will seal the door.”
The king wrenched the blade free, and then, with a cry, holding the hilt in both hands, he sliced downward.
Taylan’s jaw dropped.
The sword had actually pierced the door’s surface.
Arthur applied more pressure, forcing the sword in and down. He grunted, his elbows jutting as he worked the blade.
He was cutting through the door!
“Arthur,” said Wright, touching the king’s elbow.
“Watch out,” said Taylan, remembering the scar that remained on her neck from when Arthur had almost killed her.
But the king seemed to hear him.
“Take out your sword and step back,” Wright instructed.
She guessed the Alliance must have taken the ship and had told the major they could unlock the door.
Arthur’s sword removed, a moment later the door slid open, though only halfway. The ridge the sword had created caught on the jamb.
She was poised, waiting for the defensive fire from within.
Nothing came.
The room was dark.
“Lights,” said Wright.
His command had no effect.
Taylan switched her visor to night vision. The room was about four meters square and empty except for a bed. On the bed lay the figure of a woman, curled on her side in a fetal position.
She was slim, and her long, dark hair spread over her pillow.
Was it the Dwyr? For a second, Taylan wondered if they’d been tricked with a decoy. The person on the bed looked very different from the figure she’d seen dressed in all her regalia. Could it really be her? And what was wrong with her? Why wasn’t she getting up? Was she drugged? Could she be dead?
Arthur was striding toward her, his sword high.
“Wait!” Taylan shouted, running in front of him. “Wait! I don’t think it’s the Dwyr.”
This time, he didn’t appear to hear.
“Arthur! No!” she pushed his chest, slowing his progress.
She couldn’t see his face behind his visor, but she knew the blank stare he was likely wearing too well.
“Wright, help me!” She couldn’t let Arthur murder an unarmed woman.
The major didn’t move. “It’s her.”
How did he know? She guessed his HUD had told him, that his helmet was relaying his view of the Dwyr to the Gallant.
Arthur raised his sword.
“No! Don’t do it!”
In part of Taylan’s mind, she saw Dwyr Orr on the platform at the launch ceremony, lifting a knife to Kayla’s throat. She saw Wilson, his bloody, tortured body hanging upside down on the front of the Dwyr’s conveyance, while the madwoman stood above him behind her protective barrier, the wind billowing out the cloth of her bizarre headdress. She heard the roar of her rabid supporters, clamoring for his blood.
In another part of her mind, Crusaders were tending her burns, giving her their clothes and food. She saw a Crusader couple looking after her son and daughter, knowing they were from West BI and not caring.
There was a sound like air being sucked into a vacuum and suddenly Merlin was there, standing in a corner of the room.
“Don’t let him kill her!” she yelled, not even sure why.
The alien said nothing.
She snatched for Arthur’s sword arm. At the same time, she kicked his kneecap. It had no effect. She kicked again, summoning all her strength, while barely holding back the descending blade. His armored leg bent backward, just a little, but it was enough to halt his progress.
The king was leaning over her, bringing his considerable weight to bear downward on her. She forced her shoulder into his chest, groaning with effort as she tried to unbalance him. If she could just get him down on the deck, if she could get that sword out of his hand, he might come to his senses.
But what chance did she stand with the alien right there, controlling him?
For long strained seconds, they were at a stalemate. Her hand clamped his wrist and her entire body’s power was devoted to preventing the killing blow.
It was not enough.
Her muscles gave way and, the last of her strength spent, she collapsed.
But she fell backward, over the motionless figure of the Dwyr. In another moment, she adjusted her position so she covered the woman’s body with her own. She couldn’t help it. Everything felt so wrong.
Arthur’s hand fastened on her shoulder. “Move, Taylan.”
“I won’t. I can’t.”
“You must.”
His head turned toward Merlin.
Still, the alien said nothing.
Arthur didn’t bring down his sword. It hung over her, silver in the dark. But neither did he release her shoulder.
Wright stood by, his rifle muzzle pointing to the side. He also didn’t seem to know what to do.
Then Merlin said, “It is no matter. The new leader of the Crusade has escaped on a shuttle. I suggest we take the former Dwyr and return to the Gallant.”
Chapter Forty-Three
In a remote cove on the coast of West BI, a small boat bobbed on the waves. If it came any closer to the shore, it risked stranding itself on the sea bed. Aboard the boat, an argument was taking place.
“You have to take me closer in,” a middle-aged man insisted. “If I try to make it to shore from here, I’ll drown.”
“I told you,” the boat’s captain replied, “this is as far as I go. I can’t help it that the tide’s in, and I’m not going to wait until it goes out. It isn’t safe. I’ve taken a big risk bringing you here.”
“I paid you a plentiful amount,” said the middle-aged man. “Too much for you to dump me in the sea tens of meters from the coast.”
“I’m not dumping you anywhere. I can take you back to Ireland if you like. I’m going that way anyway.” The captain grinned.
“No, I don’t want to go all the way back to Ireland. I’ve come this far...” He paused, looking at the waves that lay between him and his destination. “There has to be a better place you can take me.”
“Sure, there are lots of spots. I could moor the boat and we could both step onto the quay, right into the hands of Crusader port officials! Now, what’s it to be? Are you getting out here, or am I taking you home with me?”
His gaze dropped to the bag hanging from a strap that ran
diagonally across the older man’s chest. He was clearly wondering what the bag held. Perhaps it was more items similar to the heavy gold necklace he’d accepted in return for passage to West BI.
The man touched his bag protectively and took a step backward.
There was no one else about, naturally. That was the whole idea. He needed to slip into West BI unobserved, especially by anyone from the EAC. But it also meant if a murder were to be committed, there would be no witnesses.
“So, it’s back to Ireland it is!” said the captain brightly.
Despite his words, his gaze didn’t leave the bag.
“No,” said his passenger. “No, I’ll get out here.” He glanced at the water. How deep was it? He was not a good swimmer. “Perhaps I’ll only need to wade in.”
“Yes, perhaps. I’ll hold that for you while you climb out of the boat and hand it to you once you’re in.”
“That isn’t necessary. I can manage.” He moved to the edge. How did one get off a boat at sea? Would he have to jump?
“Are you sure? Your bag looks heavy. It might weigh you down. When you get closer to the shore, I’ll throw it to you.”
Rather than replying, the man put one leg over the gunwale. The gray water churned below him. He paused, trying to gather the courage to put his other leg over.
Too late, he saw the shadow of the captain rushing at him. A grasping hand fastened on the strap across his chest, and the captain tried to yank the bag over his head. The man fought back and managed to land a punch. But he was wobbling, half on and half off the boat. His right leg swung free as the two men tussled.
The captain gave him a shove. He grappled with thin air. He was falling. He felt a tug, and his bag was ripped away, the bulky contents knocking his head as they passed.
Icy water closed over him. He’d taken a breath in shock as he entered it, and the painful, stinging, saltiness filled his mouth and nose. His body rejecting the sensation, the water splurted out, but instantly his lungs reacted with the impulse to breathe in again. He clamped his lips and tried to ignore the spasms that jerked his ribs.
Twisting, flailing, he tried to find the surface. Which way up was he? Where was the sky? He could see nothing. The water was cloudy, opaque. He reached out with his feet but they didn’t make contact. Where was the sea bed?
More by luck than effort, his head broke the surface.
Sweet air!
He sucked in a lungful and immediately coughed. He sank below the waves again.
But now he knew in which direction lay his survival.
Inexpertly kicking, he managed to rise to the surface again. His arms windmilled. Was this how to tread water?
His chin and mouth barely visible, he strained to see the boat and caught a glimpse of the stern and the engine chugging away from him.
The damned captain had taken all he had, the wealth he’d spent his entire life collecting. All he had was the clothes he was wearing, a photograph, silver necklace, ceramic pot of fragrant oil, and the coins he’d sewn into his turn ups.
But he had worse problems than few funds.
Where was the shore?
Swinging about, he spotted the beach. It did appear to be deserted, as the captain had promised it would be. He flattened out his body in the water and kicked his legs harder. Tentatively, he moved his arms in a broad breaststroke. That seemed to help keep him afloat, and the waves appeared to be carrying him in the right direction.
The person who had been Hans Jonte slowly swum closer to land.
He had a new name now, one he’d thought up on his long journey from Jamaica: Joseph Fry. What a name to conjure with—memorable, solid, evocative of the old Britannic Isles.
The tip of one of his toes brushed the bottom.
He’d made it.
He put both his feet down and stood up, the cold water streaming from his sodden clothes. A wave crashed into his back, urging him forward. He began to walk the remaining distance to the shingle.
He was going to be okay. He was a survivor.
And though he might have left his old name behind, he hadn’t abandoned his dreams, his vision for the future. He would make the right contacts and establish a network. Then, when he was ready, he would begin again.
Chapter Forty-Four
Wright stepped between the opening double doors into bright sunshine. He paused a moment, taking in his surroundings. Palm trees lined the quiet street. The sky was a brilliant blue. It had been a long time since he’d been planetside without being in a combat zone. New Zealand was one of the few remaining places on Earth not currently degraded by resource harvesting or under threat of invasion by the EAC.
His time at the psych unit had done him good. Drug therapies, lots of talking and learning of techniques to help him cope when memories intruded into his mind unbidden. A week seemed too short a time to be there, but he guessed the unit was under pressure to sign off on residents. The Alliance’s resources were stretched. Every man and woman was needed.
His orders to return to the Gallant had arrived as soon as the doc declared him fit to return to duty. He had a few hours to kill, however, before the transport was due to leave Auckland military spaceport. He decided to take a walk around downtown and maybe buy a few souvenirs of his visit. He’d never bothered with decorating his cabin, but maybe a picture or two would be nice.
He was about to walk away from the unit when someone on the opposite side of the road waved at him.
“Hey, Wright!” she called.
A car approached. After waiting for it to pass, Taylan Ellis crossed the street.
“Phew,” she breathed. “I’m glad I caught you. I had to virtually break Colbourn’s arm before she would tell me where you were, and then she said I’d miss you because you were leaving today.”
He didn’t answer. Encountering her here at the unit, knowing she knew he’d stayed for treatment, made him feel weird.
“Is there a bench or somewhere else we can sit?” she asked, then, before he could say anything, she answered her own question. “Yes, there’s one. Come on.”
The bench stood in a small square of lawn and flower beds to one side of the psych unit entrance, not really large enough to be called a park.
As they sat down, she said, “Hi Taylan. How nice of you to come and see me. How are you?”
He smiled. “Sorry, you’ve taken me by surprise. But, how are you?”
“Better now I can see you’re okay. When you disappeared after the battle, I was worried about you.”
“Maybe I should have told you where I was going, but I thought you’d be returning planetside at the first opportunity, and...coming here feels a little embarrassing.”
“Don’t be dumb. It means you’re human, unlike Brigadier Bitch Colbourn or Lieutenant-General Carol the Psychopath.”
He tried to smother a chuckle, but then gave up smothering it and burst out laughing.
She smiled. “That’s good. I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh properly.”
“Have you been aboard the Gallant all this time?” he asked.
“I have. I received my official discharge, then I kind of hung around under the radar. Things were crazy after we took the Dwyr to the Gallant, right? I think the Alliance could barely believe its luck. No one was paying any attention to me so I took the time to sort out some stuff.”
“What’s been happening?” One of the standard rules of treatment at the unit was no access to news.
“Hmm, did you know Ua Talman announced he’s lending his support to the Alliance?”
“I didn’t. That’s great. We might win this war yet. Did he say what was behind his decision?”
“I don’t think he did. Or I didn’t hear about anyway. Oh, and,” she said added in the tone of someone about to impart some juicy gossip, “the word is, Dwyr Orr is in a coma. That’s why she was so unresponsive when we found her. The docs can’t bring her out of it.”
“Really?”
“Yes. In fact, I kn
ow it’s true because Arthur told me.”
“You’re friends with him again?”
“Not exactly. I mean, he’s come close to killing me twice now, so...you know? But he did seem to want to make it up to me somehow. It’s odd. Deep down, he’s extremely moral as well as kind and well-meaning. On the other hand, he’s also a blood-thirsty, remorseless killer.”
“But he’s only ever like that when Merlin’s around,” said Wright.
“Yes, something comes over him, and he does the alien’s bidding. I’m not certain, but I think the fact that I tried to stop him both times might have made him think twice about Merlin.”
“That’s good news. And what’s happening with the EAC?”
“It’s going just as strong as ever. It announced it has a new leader, Dwyr Perran Orr.”
“The boy.”
“Yes, Kala’s son,” Taylan agreed. “But we all know he’s too young to lead. The real leader is that woman who escaped with him.”
“I said something similar to Merlin once. I suggested she might be our real enemy, that she’d encouraged the original Dwyr in her ambition to convert the entire globe to her cult.”
“What did he say?”
“He said...” Wright scrunched his brow as he tried to remember. “He complimented my insight. That was all, though.”
“He did?! Then maybe you’re right. Maybe he was saying you hit the nail on the head.”
“Maybe, but what good will it do us? He also said she’s impossible to kill.”
Taylan also frowned. Then she appeared to become distracted by something. She was staring at a spot around the top of his head.
She reached out a tentative hand and gently pressed the crown of his hair. “Doesn’t it ever stay down?”
She was referring to the irrepressible tuft.
“Never,” he replied. “But, one day, everyone will wear their hair like this.”
She snorted with laughter. “I expect you’re right. When mine grows back...” she self-consciously touched the short regrowth on one side of her head “...I’m getting it cut just like yours.”
A plaintive miaow came from the bag at her feet. “Oh, I almost forgot! Poor Boots. He’s been cooped up in there for ages.”