“Yes?” she asked irritably. “So?”
“How do you propose to maintain the blackmail threat over the crews of the ships you dispatch to the nebula?”
Kiera turned from Hudson Proctor to look directly at the hellhawk on the other side of the window. “We’ll come up with something.”
“Your rebellion has failed. Capone is on his way with enough gangsters to overwhelm you.”
“Fuck you.”
“I sincerely believe the Navy mission is a threat to my continued existence in this form. That must be prevented. I intend to fly to Mastrit-PJ, and I’m offering you the chance to escape with me.”
“Why?”
“You have the arming codes for the combat wasps I have been loaded with. Admittedly they are only fusion warheads, but I will take you off the asteroid if you make those codes available to me.”
Kiera scanned round the ruined lounge. The machine guns opened fire again with a thunderclap tattoo. Sapphire light flexed hungrily within the crystals, causing them to expand further into the lounge. “Very well.”
The hellhawk surged forwards, its neck flattening out. Energistic power cloaked its hooked beak with a lambent red glow. The lounge’s window rippled as the tip pressed against it, then parted like water to allow the vast creature’s head into the lounge. A huge iris swivelled round to fix on Kiera. The beak parted to reveal an airlock hatch inside.
“Welcome aboard,” Etchells said.
Al ran down the last flight of stairs to find Mickey standing at the bottom. The lieutenant took a terrified step backwards.
“Al, please, I did everything I could. I swear it.” He crossed himself elaborately. “On my mother’s life, we tried to get Jez out of there. Three of the guys got whacked just stepping through the door. Those bullets are too much. They kill you, Al, kill you dead.”
“Shut the fuck up, Mickey.”
“Sure, Al, sure thing. Absolutely. I’m dumb. From now on. Definitely.”
Al peered across the hallway. Bullets had shredded the composite wall panelling, even hacking their way into the metal behind. Opposite him, the Nixon suite’s doors glinted prismatically in the light emerging from the two surviving ceiling panels.
“Where’s Kiera, Mickey?”
“She was in there, Al. I swear.”
“Was?”
“They stopped firing a couple of minutes ago. We can sense some of them still.”
Al tapped his baseball bat on the floor, contemplating the Nixon suite. “Hey,” he shouted. “You in there. I brought a whole truckload of my guys with me, and any minute now we’re gonna march right in and beat seven types of crap out of you. Your shooters ain’t gonna be no good against this many of us. But if you come out right now, then you got my word that you don’t get your balls screwed into the nearest light socket. This is between me and Kiera now. Walk away.”
The baseball bat tapped out a metronome beat on the ground. A figure moved behind the crystalline sheet with slow caution.
“Mickey?” Al asked. “Why didn’t you just jump the bastards through the ceiling?”
Mickey’s shoulders wriggled awkwardly under his double-breasted suit. “The ceiling?”
“Never mind.”
“I’m coming out,” Hudson Proctor called. He stepped through the gap in the crystal; his arm was outstretched, holding the machine gun by its strap.
Thirty Thompson sub-machine guns were lined up on him, most of them silver-plated. He closed his eyes and waited for the shots, Adam’s apple bobbing quickly.
Al couldn’t quite figure the spark of outrage glimmering in the man’s mind. Fear, yes, plenty of it. But Hudson Proctor was indignant about something.
“Where is she?” Al asked.
Hudson tilted over from his waist, allowing the machine gun to rest on the floor before letting go of the strap. “Gone,” he said. “A hellhawk took her off.” He paused, real anger heating his expression. “Just her. I was climbing in behind her and she shoved a fucking gun in my face. That bitch; there was room for all of us on board—she just left us behind. Didn’t give a fuck about us. I made everything happen for her, you know. Without me she would never have kept control of the hellhawks. I was the one who kept them in line.”
“Why did a hellhawk take her off?” Al asked. “She ain’t got nothing over them any more.”
“It’s Etchells, the Stryla , he’s obsessed about what kind of weapon the Tyrathca have on the other side of the Orion Nebula. He took her with him so she could fire the combat wasps. They’ll probably start the first inter-species war. Both of them are crazy enough.”
“Women, huh?” Al gave him a friendly grin.
Hudson’s face twitched. “Yeah. Women. Fuck ’em.”
“All they’re good for.” Al laughed.
“Yeah, right.”
The baseball bat caught Hudson square on the crown of his head, smashing through the bone to cleave the brain in two. Blood splashed down the front of Al’s sharply cut suit, splattering on his patent leather shoes. “And just look at the shit they get you into,” he told the collapsing corpse.
Thirty streamers of white fire stabbed out in unison, vaporizing the crystal wall and decimating the possessed cowering behind it.
Libby’s cries brought them to the bedroom. Everyone hung back as Al went through the door into the darkened room. Libby was kneeling on the floor, cradling a figure in a stained towelling robe. Her thin voice was a constant piteous wail, like some animal braying for its dead mate. She rocked softly backwards and forwards, dabbing at Jezzibella’s face. Al moved forwards, fearing the worst. But Jezzibella’s thoughts were still present, still flowing through her own brain.
Libby turned her head to face him, tears glinting down her cheeks. “Look what they did,” she whimpered. “Look at my poppet, my beautiful beautiful poppet. Devils, devils all of you. That’s why you were sent to the beyond. You’re devils.” Her shoulders trembled as she slowly curled herself around Jezzibella, cuddling her fiercely.
“It’s okay,” Al said. His mouth was dry and he bent down beside the stricken old woman. In his whole life he’d never been so scared for what he would see.
“Al?” Jezzibella gasped. “Al, is that you?”
Scorched, empty eye sockets searched round for him. He gripped her hand, feeling the black skin crack open under his fingers. “Sure, baby, I’m here,” his faint voice faded as his throat closed up. He wanted to join Libby and put his head back and scream.
“I didn’t tell her,” Jezzibella said. “She wanted to know where you were, but I never said.”
Al was sobbing. Like it mattered if Kiera had found out, everyone who counted had stayed loyal in the end. But Jez hadn’t known that. Had done what she thought was needed. For him.
“You’re an angel,” he bawled. “A goddamn fucking angel sent down from heaven to show me what a worthless piece of shit I am.”
“No,” she cooed. “No, Al.”
He traced his fingers over the remnants of her precious face. “I’ll make you better,” he promised. “You’ll see. Every doctor on this crappy little world is gonna come up here and cure you. I’m gonna make them. And you’ll get well again. I’ll be here right beside you the whole time. And I’m gonna take care of you from now on. Good care. You’ll see. No more of this hurting and fighting. Never again. You’re all that matters to me. You’re everything, Jez. Everything.”
Mickey hung around at the back of the crowd shuffling about in the Nixon suite when the two terrified-looking non-possessed doctors arrived. He reckoned that was the smart thing. Be there, show off your loyalty like a medal, but don’t get into direct line of sight. Not at a time like this. He knew the boss well enough by now. Somebody was going to pay very hard for what was going down. Very hard indeed. The asteroid was rotten with rumours about how the Confederation had learned how to torture a possessed for months. If anybody could improve on that, it would be the Organization, with Patricia as chief researcher.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder. Mickey’s nerves were so shot they fired his leg muscles to jump. The hand prevented any actual movement, holding him fast with abnormal strength. “What is this?” he squawked with fake indignation. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“I don’t care who you are,” Gerald Skibbow said. “Tell me where Kiera is.”
Mickey tried to size up his . . . well, not assailant, exactly—questioner. Unnervingly powerful, and zero sense of humour. Not a good combination. “The bitch showed us a clean pair of heels. A hellhawk took her off. Now let me have my shoulder back, man. Jesus!”
“Where did it take her?”
“Where did . . . Oh, like you’re going after them?” Mickey sneered.
“Yes.”
Mickey didn’t like the way this was speedballing downhill. He dropped the sarcasm approach. “The Orion Nebula, okay. Can I go now, thank you.”
“Why would she go there?”
“What is it to you, pal?” a voice asked.
Gerald let go of Mickey and turned to face Al Capone. “Kiera is possessing our daughter. We want her back.”
Al nodded thoughtfully. “You and I need to talk.”
Rocio watched the taxi roll across the docking ledge towards him. Its elephant trunk airlock tube lifted up and fastened onto his hatch.
“We’ve got a visitor,” he announced to Beth and Jed.
Both of them hurried along the main corridor to the airlock. The hatch was already open, framing a familiar figure. “Bugger me,” she grunted. “Gerald!”
He smiled wearily at her. “Hello. I brought some decent grub. Figured I owe you that much.” There was a huge pile of boxes on the floor of the taxi behind him.
“What happened, mate?” Jed asked. He was peering round the old loon, trying to read the labels.
“I rescued my husband.” Loren manifested her own face over Gerald’s, and smiled at the two youngsters. “I must thank you for taking care of him. God knows it’s not easy at the best of times.”
“Rocio!” Beth yelled.
A shocked Jed was stumbling backwards. “He’s possessed! Run!”
Rocio’s face appeared in one of the brass-rimmed portholes. “It’s all right,” he assured them. “I cut a deal with Al Capone. We’re taking the Skibbows with us, and tracking down my murderous old friend Etchells. In return, the Organization supplies the hellhawks with every technical assistance they need securing Almaden, and then leaves them alone.”
Beth gave Gerald a nervous glance, not at all trustful, no matter who was possessing him. “Where are we going?” she asked Rocio.
“The Orion Nebula. To start with.”
Chapter 09
The STNI-986M was a basic VTOL utility jet (unimaginatively nicknamed Stony); subsonic, with a blunt-tube fuselage which could carry either twenty tonnes of cargo or a hundred passengers. Seven New Washington Navy (NWN) Transport Command squadrons of the durable little vehicles had been flown to Ombey when the President answered their ally’s call for military assistance to liberate Mortonridge. Ever since General Hiltch authorized aircraft to fly over secured areas of Mortonridge, they’d become a familiar sight to the occupation troops. After Ketton, they’d been invaluable in supporting the new frontline advance policy which had spread the serjeants dangerously thin over the ground as they divided the peninsula into confinement zones. Outbound from Fort Forward they would deliver food, equipment, and ammunition to the upcountry stations; on the return they invariably evacuated the most serious body-abuse cases of ex-possessed for medical treatment.
Even on airframes intended for rugged duty, full-time usage was producing maintenance problems. Spare parts were also scarce; Ombey’s indigenous industries were already struggling to keep frontline equipment and the Royal Marine engineering brigades going. All the Stony squadrons had experienced mid-flight emergency landings and unexplained powerdowns. The rover reporters covering the Liberation knew all about the STI-986M’s recent shortcomings, though it was never mentioned in their official reports. Not good for civilian morale. There was no outright censorship, but they all knew they were part of the Liberation campaign, helping to convince people that the possessed could be beaten. Standard wartime compromise, reporting what was in the army’s interest in order to get the maximum amount of information.
So Tim Beard cut back on his physiological input when the Stony carrying him and Hugh Rosler lifted from Fort Forward at dawn. He wanted to give the accessors back home a small feeling of excitement as the plane swept low across the endless steppes of dried mud, which meant toning down his body’s instinctive unease. It helped that he was sitting so close to Hugh, the pair of them wedged in a gap between a couple of composite drums full of nutrient soup for the serjeants. Hugh always seemed perfectly at ease; even when Ketton ripped itself free of the planet he’d stood up squarely, regarding the spectacle with a kind of amused awe while the rest of the rovers were crouched down on the quaking ground, heads buried between their legs. He also had a neat eye for trouble. There were a couple of occasions when the rover corps had been clambering over ruins when he’d spotted booby traps missed by the serjeants and Marine engineers. Not the greatest conversationalist, but Tim felt safe around him.
It was one of the reasons he’d asked Hugh to come along. This wasn’t a flight organized for them by the army, but the story was too good to wait for the liaison officer to get round to it. And good stories about the Liberation were becoming hard to find. But Tim had been covering military stories for twenty years now: he knew how to find his way round the archaic chain of command, which people to cultivate. Pilots were good material, and useful, almost as much as serjeants. Finding a ride on the early flight among the crates and pods was easy enough.
The Stony curved away from Fort Forward and headed south, following the remnants of the M6. Once they’d settled into their two hundred metre operational altitude, Tim eased the buckle back on what was laughingly called his safety strap, and crouched down by the door port. Enhanced retinas zoomed in on the road below. He’d dispatched a hundred fleks back to the studio with the same view; by now the start of the M6 around the old firebreak was as familiar to the average Confederation citizen as the road outside their own home. But with each trip he progressed a little further along the road, deeper into the final enclaves of the possessed. In the first couple of weeks, it was astounding progress indeed. None of the rovers had to manufacture the optimistic buzz that pervaded their recordings. It was different today, there was progress, still, but it was difficult to capture the essence just by panning a shot from horizon to horizon.
The tactical maps urged on them by the army liaison officers had changed considerably from the original swathe of incriminating pink stretching across Mortonridge which delineated the possessed territory. At first the borders had contracted noose-style, then geographical contours showed up along the rim of pinkness, interfering with the rate of advance. After Ketton it had changed again. The serjeants had been deployed in spearhead thrusts, carving corridors through the possessed territories. Separation and isolation, General Hiltch’s plan to prevent the possessed from collecting in the kind of density which would kick off another Ketton incident. The current tactical map showed Mortonridge covered in slowly shrinking pink blotches separating from each other like evaporating puddles. Of course, no one actually knew what that critical number was which had to be avoided at all costs. So the serjeants toiled on relentlessly, guided by numerical simulations based on someone’s best guess. And there were no more harpoon deluges to make the job easier, nor even SD laser fire to soften up a strongly defended position. The front line was back to clearing the land in the hardest way possible.
Tim’s retinas tracked keenly along the carbon-concrete ribbon which the Stony was following. Royal Marine mechanoids had bulldozed entire swamps of saturated soil from the road as the army swept down the spine of the peninsula. At times the single cleared carriageway was twenty metres below the tops of the new banks, as if it was
some kind of cooled lava river confined to steep heat-erosion valleys. The sidewalls were solidified by chemical cement, bonding the slush together in artificial molecular clusters that traded their initial strength with a limited lifespan. Sunlight shimmered off them in vast sapphire and emerald defraction patterns as the Stony whisked by overhead. All the original bridges had been swept away, leaving destitute towers protruding from the mud at precarious angles. Of their replacements, no two were the same. Small gullies had simple scaffolding archways of monobonded silicon curving over their sluggish streams. Beautiful single-span suspension bridges leapt across gaps half a kilometre wide, their gossamer cables glinting like thin icicles in the clear dawn air. Programmable silicon pontoons carried the mesh-carpet road across broad valley floors in heroic relay.
“The financial cost of this recaptured motorway is roughly ten million Kulu pounds per kilometre,” Tim said. “Thirty times the price of the original, and it hasn’t even got electronic traffic control. It will probably be the Liberation’s most enduring physical memorial, even though thirty-eight per cent of it is classed as a temporary structure. Ground troops know it as the road to the other side of hell.”
“You could always take the optimistic view,” Hugh Rosler said.
Tim put the narrative track memory on pause. “If I could find one, I would. It’s not as if I’m rooting for the possessed. Being positive after all this time is flat-out impossible. We have to tell the truth occasionally.”
Hugh nodded through the rectangular port. “Gimmie convoy, look.”
A long snake of trucks and buses was winding its way north along the reclaimed road. The buses meant it would be mostly civilians, ex-possessed being carried away to safety. “Gimmies” was the term which the rovers had privately evolved for them. Every interview when they came staggering out of the zero-tau pods was the same litany of demands: give me medical treatment, give me clothes, give me food, give me the rest of my family, give me somewhere safe to live, give me my life back. And why did it take you so long to save me?
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