Bix lunged at him, shoving her face into his, balancing on her toes to do it. “It takes as long as it takes.”
“Quiet!” Dex hissed. He focused on the unexplored end of the corridor. “Both of you.”
Vin scowled at his brother. “Don’t tell me—”
“Everyone shut it.” Tyron slapped him across the back of the neck. She stepped forward, head canted, listening. There is was again: a keening wail. Breathy and depleted.
Bix set off in a sprint down the darkened corridor before any of them could stop her. “That’s them!”
Seventy-Eight
It was a livestock pen—Tyron could think of it in no other terms. It was a tall, narrow space. Thick horizontal slats rose in the cross-frame to disappear into the darkness above. In the erratic light cast by their torches, small arms poked from between the bars, fingers clutching desperately at the air.
Bix was the first one to reach it. She slid to her knees, grabbing the tiny hands. She spoke in a winded rush. “Found you. I’m here. We’re here.”
Four little bodies pressed against the walls. Tyron glimpsed pale, tear-stained faces. A small hand reached through the slats to seize the leg of her fatigues in a death grip as if fearful she were not really there. There was sobbing: a broken hitching sound that echoed in the space.
Tyron peered deeper into the pen, training her torch over more small, huddled shapes dressed in the now familiar paper garments. They were all children. She watched, holding her breath, willing them to move.
Cautiously, as if fearing some trick, one by one the other figures advanced to her side of the pen: six more in all. They clung to each other and cast wide, fearful looks at them.
Dex and Five were already working at opening the gate. Tyron crouched low. A pair of identical faces greeted her. She recognized her would-be dining companions from the previous night. The expert on leaking brains and her sister. Bix had said her name was Lana, hadn’t she?
“The Poisoncry guards. Where did they go?”
The girl’s face screwed up into an angry knot. It was thick with ferocity that only an infantry-bred child could possess. “Gone. But we’re gonna get ’em back, right?”
Tyron began to answer, was interrupted by the gate crashing open. The children spilled out, Bix’s four charges eagerly tackling her in hugs to her waist and legs. The remaining six edged out of the space, warily eyeing their rescuers.
She felt a tug at the hem of her jacket. The twin girls looked up at her. “They knew someone was comin’. They took the finished ones and left.”
“The finished ones?”
Lana pointed at the empty cage beside them. “Finished ones.”
The hair stood up on the back of Tyron’s neck.
A low mechanical groan filled the air. It sounded more like the rending of metal than a klaxon. Yellow lights rolled into life, bathing everyone with a strobing glow.
That can’t be good.
Tyron activated her vox. “Three. Six. Report.”
Three was the first to respond. The static purr of the connection flattened the man’s voice but stole none of the anxiety in it. “Incoming ships from the spinward side. Look to be three…scratch that…five small craft. Don’t look like Poisoncry.”
Vin cursed loudly. She ignored him, focused on the vox. “How long?”
“Three minutes. Maybe.”
They were turning to run before anyone gave an order. She scooped up Lana, settling her against her hip. The child latched onto Tyron with a death grip.
Dex sprinted past, a young girl clinging to his back, her arms cast around his neck. She caught a quick glimpse of frightened eyes before the girl buried her face against him.
“Six, we’re on our way. Keep our exit clear.”
Seventy-Nine
Slow. Too slow. The children struggled to match the strides of the taller, stronger adults. They were just as motivated, perhaps even more so, to flee this black and twisted jungle of strange lights and squirming shadows. Vin paused long enough to scoop a child under each arm. As soon as they entered the operating room, the girl clutched at Tyron more tightly, her tiny arms like steel bands.
“No! Not back in here.” Lana’s voice was hoarse with desperation against Tyron’s neck. “Please. No.”
She tried to shush her. “Shut your eyes. I’ve got you.”
They wove through the aisles of metal tables. Tyron hissed for the children to stay together, but fear seemed to drive them into a panicked scatter. Their lights combined with the sickly yellow of the sputtering alarms. Every shadow danced and writhed as if some sleeping demon were about to crawl from its depths. They burst into the culler-mech room. Four and Six were practically bouncing on the balls of their feet, shouting.
“Report!” she and Vin bellowed at the same time. They exchanged glances.
“We thought it was something you did,” Six called out. “Alarms popped on. Then this!” He panned his torch across the large doorway.
A heavy blast door sealed off their exit to the landing field. It might have been an automated security feature; now it was a tremendous problem.
Tyron carefully unhooked Lana’s death grip and coaxed her to stand on her own. The girl clutched at the fabric of her trouser leg and would not let go. Deciding this arrangement would have to work, she inspected the door. There was no access panel on this side. There’d be no mysterious trick with the sightless black orb, even if she were willing to try it again.
Movement caught the corner of her eye in the direction of the bulky shadows of the lifeless culler-mechs. She regarded the first in the row, panning her torch across its surface. Something was different about them. She stepped closer. Had they moved?
“No!” Lana dug in and tried to anchor her in place. “They’ll see you.”
“They’re powered off,” Tyron said, keeping her voice low. But the girl’s embrace tightened, enlivening the ache her injured leg. “They’re just mechs.”
“They’re the finished ones!” Her face paled with renewed terror. “Don’t!”
A baleful red light burst into life inside the hollows of the culler’s carapace. Lana unleashed an ear-piercing shriek and was soon joined by the other children. Behind the first culler-mech, similar lights popped on. The targeting sight on the first of the row swiveled erratically in a series of clicks and whines. Tyron danced back, legs tangling with the girl, and nearly toppled over onto her.
She swept the girl up on her hip, bellowing. “Fall back! Back the way we came!”
Vin and the other Heavies stopped in their attempts to force the blast door open.
“Forget it!” She raced past. “We’ll find another way out. Move.”
Hollow thudding vibrated the floor as the first of the cullers fell into pursuit. Something hummed from within it: a sinister low tone that built in intensity.
Six and Five opened fire. Plasma rounds brightened the room in vicious flashes. The air thickened with the smell of hot metal and ozone. In their sprint back to the doorway, Tyron spared a glance over her shoulder. The rounds met their target with what should have been deadly accuracy at such short range but seemed to have little effect. Each strike dissipated in a greasy blur, sliding over the beast’s metal skin. Dread squeezed her lungs.
“Charge plating,” Tyron yelled in warning. “It’s got charge plating. Save your ammo.”
Nearly all of their captured weapons relied on plasma charges. They might as well be tossing curses at it. That left them with two ballistic-hybrid weapons that might be effective.
Vin yelled over the din to repeat her order. They retreated into the room of vacant metal tables, their earlier caution ignored. More heavy thuds sounded as the other mechs cycled to life and set out in pursuit. It freshened the children’s terror.
“Seal the doors!” Tyron ordered. The relatively thin metal would do little to stop the approaching army of mechs but should buy them some time to find another escape route. Dex peeled off from the group with two others. There wa
s a shower of sparks as they opened fire on the lock interface, disabling it.
“Let’s go…go…go.” Lana chanted a in a litany of fear. Her tiny hands flexed and pulled at Tyron’s clothes. “Run.”
“Dex! Vin!” Tyron called over the dying echo of the barrage. She waved in the direction of the cage room. At least there was another set of walls to put between them and the mechs. There was a thunderous crash, followed by two more. Metal complained in a fluting groan. The vines of tubing overhead shook and slithered. The noise came from the ceiling and the walls. Something came loose in the dark, and she heard a sudden deluge of thick ropey liquid as whatever had been in the tubing suddenly ruptured. Another thunderous quake shook the walls. The entire structure heaved around them.
That damage was unlikely to be caused by the impact produced by a culling-mech. The building was under attack from above.
Three had warned of other ships on the way. “Air strike! Take cover!”
Tyron crouched down and deposited the girl under one of the metal tables. “Stay here.”
She maneuvered back out of the space and slipped in between Vin and Dex.
“We’re being fired on. Who would do that?” she asked.
Vin scowled. “Take your pick. These skew mucks might be doing it to themselves.”
She shook her head. That didn’t make sense. She tapped her vox: “Three. Seven. Respond.”
“Good luck with that,” Vin groused. “If they left us, their asses better be dead.”
Eighty
“The facility has been abandoned. It’s likely someone must have tipped them off,” Utaemon said. His grudge against Jon was alive and well.
Jon took in the long shadows of the landing field and the burning shells of the two runners that had been wrecked in their bombardment—a tactic he’d protested on the grounds that there might be surviving captives within the structure. It only seemed to spur Utaemon on to further callous decisions.
“Whatever Poisoncry’s op was here, we missed it.” Jon felt his glare. The man was going to have to get over this. It weren’t as if he’d sought out Fisk for information.
In terms of military acumen, Utaemon was no Sela Tyron. Jon admitted he’d been spoiled by having her as his second during their time in the Regime, well before anything resembling an intimate relationship had formed between them. She had a knack for guessing his next move, and anticipating his orders with an unquestioning loyalty that made his association with this detachment of Ironvale seem that much more sorry and ragged.
Disappointment found the familiar grooves in his shoulders and settled into place. This was the only remaining Resource Center in Brojos. The other two in the area still had personnel manning them when Ironvale attacked. If you wanted to call them that. The beings they’d found were once Eugenes, but only by the broadest of definitions. They’d been left to wander like deprogrammed souls. The culler-mechs there behaved erratically, moving in irrational patterns. In what was truly strange behavior for any automaton, some of them even seemed to try to flee rather than fight. He’d overheard some of Utaemon’s men speculating over a ghastly discovery they’d made of organic material—brains and blood—that had spilled out of a mech’s armored carapace. Jon was actually relieved that he did not find Sela there and that she’d been spared whatever gruesome experiments the Poisoncry were performing.
Come and find me. Hurry, she whispered against his neck. Not much time left.
None of it attracted Utaemon’s imagination. He merely voiced his disappointment that there’d been no other higher ranking Poisoncry to apprehend there. The projects taking place in the facility did not seem to faze him. Jon could tell that he was losing patience and that the story of promised valuable intel and prisoners from any staged raids was wearing thin.
Hold on, Ty.
The weapons system that returned fire on their bombardment almost seemed desultory. It proved easy to disable. This had the familiar earmarks of failure.
“I believe Fisk deliberately fed you misinformation. This is likely some ruse,” Utaemon said, peering at the live feeds supplied from the battle drones sent to monitor the raid. He did not bother to look at him—something that bore the weight of insult in Ironvale’s culture.
If Fisk sold you a lie, you can drag him from his comfy cell and kill him. No one would stop you. Sela’s ghost stood at his elbow. He imagined he could feel her hand on his shoulder, the softness of her breath. But you’re here now. Come and find me. While there’s still time.”
“Let’s complete the sweep,” Jon said. He ignored Utaemon’s scowl. “The teams haven’t completed securing the structure.”
“Veradin.” He used the name like a curse. “Our orders were to nullify any strongholds. Not secure them.” It was plain he viewed Jon as some upstart, an outsider that’d had an honorary rank slapped on him. Until now, the man had been surprisingly reserved about it. The dealings with Fisk had changed things. Now, he likely suspected Jon of some hidden agenda of ousting him from his position within the Ironvale Guild. He would be right at home in Fleet or the Regime.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
“I know.” Jon kept his gaze on the oddly shaped structure on the screens. “Don’t care. Take it up with Hirano if you want. There could be captives here that need our help.”
“We lack the resources for search and rescue, Veradin. This is a scouting—”
“You’re not afraid of little extra work, are you?” Jon finally fixed him with a stare. One benefit of having to deal with the self-absorbed Kindred officers of the Regime: he knew their weakness. “This failure will not fall upon your shoulders, Captain. Feel free to blame me for any loss of honor this might entail. I already have a tab running.”
“Captain Utaemon.” Dai Hirano stood nearby. In her dust-covered field armor, Jon barely recognized the young woman. They’d only spoken the once on the Golden Crane. “I will volunteer a squad of four to aid Special Information Officer Veradin.”
Jon could have kissed her.
Utaemon shook head. It was a jerky apoplectic motion. “No. Your grandfather—”
“Isn’t here…Captain.” Dai replied. She drew herself up, her full attention on Utaemon. There was history here, barely digested hostility, and the captain was on the losing end of it. Dai struck Jon as someone reluctant to throw her grandfather’s identity around casually.
Utaemon’s disgust settled into the corners of his mouth and the line of his shoulders. He knew he was being mocked, but still, there was that Ironvale rigidness of deeply ingrained ritual or honor he was not willing to break.
“Very well,” he said, focusing on Jon. “You’ll be afforded thirty minutes before we complete the destruction of this facility.”
Jon knew just how little this officious man would grieve if by some misfortune he were still in the facility when that deadline was up. But having Dai’s support had to mean something.
There was a time in his life when he might have engaged Utaemon further, but it was petty, unimportant. He felt the pulling in him building to a fever pitch. The compulsion would have driven him to search the facility alone and unarmed if need be.
“That’s plenty of time.”
Eighty-One
This deep into the compound, Jon expected the place to teem with culler-mechs, but so far, he’d seen only the remains of the one they’d taken out from the initial aerial assault. It could mean that there were more of the mechanical beasts trapped inside, or that the place had already been evacuated, as Utaemon had guessed. One option was deadly. The other one seemed worse, but for personal reasons: it meant Sela wasn’t here.
His so-called incursion team were all as new as their uniforms. Dai noticed his approach. She gave a small, efficient bow as if her earlier intervention on his behalf had never happened. Despite her apparent pedigree and influence, it seemed that Utaemon’s attitude had infected the other personnel she’d gathered. It could also be a matter of an inherent recalcitrance
automatically directed at an outsider.
“Officer Veradin, we’re not going to get in this way.” She indicated the hatch. “The tech ops can’t even make sense of the controls. It’s likely to have been damaged in the bombardment.”
Jon considered the enormous door. From its size, it was likely meant for culler-mech access. “Do we have shape charges—”
A sudden volley of what could only be plasma rounds, muffled by the thick metal, echoed from the other side of the hatch.
“Utaemon, copy.” Jon pawed clumsily at his vox. Theirs was archaic, requiring actual buttons that needed to be pressed. He got the line open on the second try. “Utaemon. Respond.”
The captain replied after a small eternity. “Officer Veradin.”
“Who do you have in the structure?”
“No one,” came the answer, begrudgingly. “We’re withdrawing—”
“No. You’re not. I still have time left.” Jon faced the end of the corridor that opened up to the landing platform. From this distance, he could only make out shapes of figures moving in the milky light. He imagined Utaemon scowling back at him from the other end. “I need more personnel.”
The static poured from his vox-coms. Jon was about to repeat himself when Utaemon finally spoke again: “May I ask why, Veradin?”
“We have confirmation of activity within the compound,” Jon cut in before he could lodge another protest. “Or do I get to tell Ironvale Guild how you missed a chance at capturing more Poisoncry prisoners?”
Jon cut the line. He turned to regard Sergeant Hirano’s amused smirk.
“Get this door open. Now.”
Eighty-Two
Utaemon took his time finding them in the passage. He pointedly ignored Jon’s attempts at speaking with him directly, choosing to surround himself with three of his personal guard. He remained well clear of the center of activity, scowling with disapproval, as the tech ops resorted to brute force to disable the door controls.
Allies and Enemies: Exiles, Book 3 Page 29