Hammer of the Witches

by Kai Wai Cheah

  “It took us… a week to clear San Luis. A week of round-the-clock fighting. And when we were done, we had practically razed half of it to the ground.”

  Eve shook her head silently. Pete’s face was locked in a solemn rictus. Keith was underplaying the whole affair. The brutality of the campaign shocked the entire nation. When the dust cleared, the event was attributed to a “rogue faction of scientists conducting unauthorized research.” The public lapped up the cover story and demanded change. The Senate obliged, passing a law that made covenanting with daimons a capital crime.

  “What killed them?” I asked.

  “Those monsters aren’t human anymore,” Ricky said. “You need to destroy the nythium within them. Only headshots work. Maybe if you destroy the spine, too, but that’s a secondary target.”

  “We only figured out that trick late in the game,” Alex confirmed. “Once I called down arty on an enemy strongpoint. The entire building collapsed on it. Couple of hours later, a giant dug its way out and shot at us from behind.”

  “How did it survive that?” Pete wondered.

  “Damned if I know. The giants could shrug off everything that wasn’t a headshot from an aetherium round. And even then, you need repeated good hits before they died.”

  “Just headshots?” I asked.

  “Well, explosives, too,” Keith said. “If you could damage the meat puppet beyond the daimon’s ability to repair it, it’d retreat to the Void.”

  “Did they have body armor?” Pete asked.

  “Their whole damn bodies were their armor.”

  “The ones we fought had plate carriers,” I said. “Won’t be surprised if we see helmets next.”

  The men took a moment to ponder the implications.

  “Same deal even if they don’t have armor,” Keith said. “Headshots first. If they have helmets, get a high caliber. Don’t bother with groin shots; they’ve got nothing vital there. Alternatively, go for explosives with lots of aetherium frag.”

  “So we should treat them as if they were wearing powered armor with the ability to self-heal,” Pete said.

  Keith nodded. “Exactly.”

  “What about melee weapons?” Eve asked. “Do they help?”

  The operators burst into laughter.

  “Are you freaking kidding me? Melee weapons?!” Bob exclaimed. “Why in the name of Asa Phoster do you want to use that?”

  “She’s right,” I said. “We don’t have explosives. We don’t have armor, air support or artillery. Eve and I had to engage a team of giants with nothing but aetherblades. If that happens again…”

  “Don’t use aetherblades,” Keith said. “I’m serious. If you can, use lightning. Better yet, particle beams. Punch into their heads and burn out the nythium.”

  “PBs will irradiate everyone downrange,” Pete observed.

  “Gotta be careful, of course, but sometimes we won’t have a choice.”

  “Will Void powers help?”

  “Nah,” Bob said. “Not directly. Heavy gees can pin the enemy in place, maybe, but they seem resistant to singularities. Even if you can rip ‘em up, it’ll still leave their nythium intact. Shockwaves… if you need to temporarily knock them down, okay, but it won’t hurt ‘em.”

  “Warps and time compression help indirectly,” Keith said. “They can take you out of danger or put you in the right position to strike. But you can’t use a warp to stun them even if you warp right on top of them. They seem immune to the effect. We had a fire team try to do that to a giant. Only one guy made it out alive. Only ‘cos he warped out, and the giant snapped his spine before he could escape.”

  “Ouch,” Eve said. “How is he now?”

  “Paraplegic. But he’s participating in an experimental nerve regeneration treatment regime. Last I heard, he can move his fingers.”

  “We may not be able to avoid close combat,” I said. “We may have to finish them with hand weapons. I was thinking of a tomahawk. The axe, not the missile. The kind we used in the Detachment.”

  Keith tapped his chin. “You mean… Hmm… Yes. If you can drive the spiked end through the skull, that should work. But you gotta be crazy if you want to do it like that.”

  “Not so crazy if I use time compression.”

  He shrugged. “Fair enough.”

  “But your favorite knives aren’t going to cut it,” Alex said.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “When I tried a brainstem stab, it blew up the knife. We need something with more mass than a regular blade. And don’t bother trying to cut nerves or muscles. When I tried, it didn’t even slow them down.”

  “Limb destruction does work,” Eve said. “I made it work. But you have to completely sever the limb.”

  “What did you use?” Bob asked.

  “A sword.”

  “A… sword.”

  “A sword.”

  Bob’s jaw dropped. “A sword? A friggin’ sword?! How… Why… I… How did you even survive?”

  “Luck, mostly,” I admitted. “That and positioning ourselves so that we only fought one bad guy at a time.”

  “You guys are insane. You know that?”

  Pete laughed. “Hey, this is the guy who sneaked four operators in powered armor aboard this very same airship, slaughtered a security detail of ex-Special Forces types and killed a marid. With a sword. Of course he’s insane!”

  Bob goggled. Ricky’s mouth twitched into a smile.

  “No… way…” Bob said.

  “Yes way,” Keith said. “I was in on it. So was Alex.”

  Bob shook his head. “I have to hear that story someday.”

  “Someday,” I promised.

  “Did you actually kill the giants, as you call ‘em?” Keith asked.

  “Not exactly. I turned on the gas and lit a fire. Eve cut them down. Bought us enough time to escape. The blast took care of them. I think.”

  “You think?”

  I shrugged. “They didn’t pursue us. It was a win.”

  “Fair enough. But limb destruction is a temporary solution. Wipe out the nythium, or they’ll come back.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Let me see if I have everything,” Pete said. “We treat giants as though they were bad guys in power armor who can ignore bullets and reattach missing limbs. Headshots and explosives only. Psions get to use lightning or particle beams, but the Void won’t work. Tomahawks for hand-to-hand combat if it comes to that. Is that it?”

  “One more thing,” Keith said. “They are highly intelligent and highly aggressive. Their tactics emphasize aggression, mobility and shock effect. However, they are too aggressive. We found that luring them into ambushes was extremely effective.”

  “Got it,” I said. “By the way… What were their body types like?”

  “Their… what?”

  “Body types. Physiology. Were they tall, short, muscular? How can they be identified?”

  “The Soviets initially wanted to use them as infiltrators. They came in all body types. They seemed extremely fit on the outside, but that’s it. They were tall ones, short ones. There were whites, blacks, Musafireen… The Soviets picked up bodies from all over the place. Why?”

  “Because the ones Eve and I fought looked exactly the same.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I dug out the video of the Chios attack and played it for them.

  “See the gunmen?” I said. “Either they attacked us, or their buddies did. Notice how similar they are? Same height, stride, body type… Same everything. It’s like they’re all clones.”

  “Impossible,” Ricky muttered.

  “Holy unholies,” Keith said. “This is… Cloning isn’t supposed to be possible, right?”

  “No,” Eve said. “It’s only illegal in the West. Big difference.”

  “Who could have done this? Why?” Bob asked.

  “Not Hexenhammer,” Eve said. “We run on a shoestring budget. We don’t have the resources needed for something like this.”

  “Whoever th
ey are,” I said, “they’re up to something big. They’re trying to discredit Hexenhammer in the press and to destroy the survivors with their cloned giants. I don’t know why, but I intend to find out.”

  “What’s your next step?” Keith asked.

  “We’re presently recovering the Hexenhammer cells still out there. We’ll bring them aboard and talk to them. See if they know what’s going on. The enemy will probably notice this and try to interfere. It’s our best chance for us to take prisoners and interrogate them, too.”

  “Sounds risky.”

  “We don’t know anything about the enemy. This is our only option.”

  “Very well. Do you need our help?”

  “Yes. Can you?”

  Keith shrugged. “My calendar’s clear.”

  “So is mine,” Alex said.

  “Been sitting on my ass for too long,” Bob said. “Time to get to work.”

  “If you’re paying, I’m playing,” Ricky said.

  “Don’t worry about payment,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Great. Where are we headed?”

  “Rome,” Eve said.

  “Rome?” I asked.

  “Here.”

  She held up her holophone. It was displaying an email.

  Dear Eve,

  Thank God you are all right. When the crackdowns began, I was so sure that Interpol had gotten you. Did you escape from the Hellenic police in Amarantopolis? But I guess you can’t answer that, can you?

  We have been busy since this mess started. We’ve been covering our tracks, closing accounts and trying to stay one step ahead of the authorities. I’ve gathered everyone in Italia. It’s safer for now, but we must keep moving.

  I hear you have made powerful friends who can assist us. The intelligence services are after us, and we can’t stay here for long. If you can help, please hurry.

  I read the email out loud. Everyone remained quiet until I was done.

  “Who sent it?” Ricky asked.

  “Luigi,” Eve replied. “He handles out logistics operations and maintains our other cache of weapons. He could help us understand what’s going on. If we’re going to go, we must go now.”

  “We’re going,” I said.

  “Hold up,” Keith said. “Captain Harding said we don’t have weapons aboard. We’re running unarmed?”

  I grinned.

  “We have aetherium. Lots of aetherium.

  6. The Living and the Dead

  Fifteen percent aetherium. Fifteen percent alcohol. Seventy percent water. That was the magic formula for military-grade ambrosia. Eve could imbibe UHC ambrosia, and I suppose I could now, but it was something neither Keith nor Bob needed to know about.

  The galley provided everything we needed. A huge bowl, measuring cups and flasks and containers, and a wide selection of vodka. Ninety-five percent alcohol by weight, exactly what the doctor ordered. I mixed aetherium with vodka, cutting the solution with water.

  By the time we arrived in Rome, we had enough ambrosia for four hip flasks. Enough for me, Keith, Bob and Eve. In the drawing room, we finalized our plans.

  “We’ll need three vehicles,” I said. “Keith and me in the first vic, Bob, Alex and Ricky in the second, Pete and Eve in the last. Eve will contact the log cell and bring them out. We will evacuate the precious cargo in Vic Three. Vics One and Two are on lookout and security. We’re expecting six pax. If we don’t have enough room for the cell, we’ll cross-load into the other vics.

  “Once we depart, order of march will be Vic One, Vic Three, Vic Two. We’re not going to stop for anyone or anything; once the precious cargo is aboard, we will extract from Rome.

  “Actions on target. Avoid confrontation where possible. The local cops are the good guys, and so are we. If we spot surveillance on site, Vic Two will create a diversion and draw away the cops while Vics One and Three will extract the precious cargo. In this scenario we will regroup at the airship. But if there’s too much heat, Vic Two will have to self-extract. Let us know if that happens.

  “If the giants show up… Well, I don’t think we can avoid getting out of a fight. Priority will be to evacuate the precious cargo. We are not going to engage in a firefight in downtown Rome. If we must, hit them hard, hit them fast and then get away clean. Now, as a reminder, we do not have body armor, we do not have firearms, and we do not have a doctor aboard. Whatever you do… try not to get hurt.”

  The men chuckled.

  “What if someone does get hurt?” Eve asked.

  Alex raised a hand. “Spec Ops Combat Medic here. We’ve got a makeshift infirmary aboard and adequate medical supplies. Evac the casualties aboard, and I’ll see what we can do. Worst case scenario, I stabilize them, and we medevac them back to Hesperia or the nearest friendly hospital.”

  “That’ll work,” I said. “Anything else?”

  “Call signs,” Pete said. “We need to know our call signs.”

  I nodded. “Mine’s Fisher. Pete is Brick.”

  “Preacher,” Keith said.

  Ramirez thumbed himself. “AR.”

  Ricky crossed his arms. “Bull.”

  “And mine’s Cowboy,” Bob said. “Eve, you got one?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “She needs one.”

  “Do I get to choose mine?” Eve asked.

  “No,” I said. “Everybody else does.”

  “What? Why?”

  I ignored her. “My vote is for Longsword.”

  “Longsword? Why?” she asked.

  “She’s a three-time Pantopian longsword fencing champion.”

  “Are you ignoring me?” Eve interjected.

  Alex nodded, ignoring her. “I’ve seen her at work. Fits her perfectly.”

  “Longsword it is,” Keith said.

  “Don’t I get a say?” Eve protested.

  “No,” I replied.

  She pouted. “Why not?”

  “Your callsign ain’t about you,” Pete said. “It’s about what others think about you.”

  “Yeah, Longsword’s pretty tame as callsigns go,” Bob said. “I’ve known guys stuck with more… insulting names for their entire career. And beyond.”

  She pouted. “How did you guys get your callsigns anyway?”

  Ricky patted his enormous muscles. “You even have to ask?”

  Bob snorted. “I came from the Southwest.”

  “I got lucky,” Ramirez said. “I got named after my initials.”

  “And the rifle,” I added.

  “That, too.”

  I cocked my head at Keith. “This guy is the son of a preacher man. Actually considered studying at a seminary until he decided to enlist.”

  “Still the best decision I made,” Keith insisted.

  “And Pete over there… Well, people call him Brick ‘cause he’s as smart as one.”

  “Hey!”

  Eve giggled. “You know it’s true.”

  “Thank you so very much, brother.”

  “No problem,” I said.

  “So why do people call you Fisher?” she asked.

  Because the first time I pulled a knife in combat, I gutted a man like a fish.

  “Because I used to work on fishing boats when I was younger,” I said.

  It wasn’t a lie. Just not the whole picture.

  “That’s… mundane.”

  “Well, we can’t all be as awesome as you.”

  “Hey. What does that mean?”

  Preacher tapped his phone. “You done with the sweet talk yet?”

  “What are you talking about?” Eve demanded.

  Pete chuckled. “They’re not.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I said.

  ***

  The first snag was vehicles. I had wanted three vans or at least one large van for the cell. We had to settle for a sports utility vehicle and two sedans.

  “Eve and Pete, you’ve got the SUV,” I said. “We’re going to have to cross-load the remaining passengers in Vic One.”


  At least we had enough radios and knives for everyone. We doubled up on security and evasive maneuvers; the last thing we needed was a gunfight. Not the least because we had no guns.

  The local police were packing plenty of firepower. After the Berlin strike, it seemed like every cop in Rome was on the streets. Not just patrol officers. I spotted three separate groups of cops decked out in body armor, balaclavas and carbines standing guard or walking the streets.

  Approaching the safe house, Vics Two and Three broke off and headed for their staging area. Keith and I parked our vehicle three blocks away and walked.

  Night had fallen on the old city. The asphalt surrendered to cobblestone. The roads shrank down, down. They were so narrow that there was barely enough room for a single vehicle. Bikes, motorized and pedal powered, outnumbered cars and were in turn outnumbered by foot traffic. There was no sidewalk, no designated lane for vehicles; all used the same roads.

  There were no daimons here. Rome was still as staunchly conservative as Hesperia and Hellas. It made life a little easier, not that the Phosterian by my side wasn’t a headache enough.

  The Hexenhammer safe house was located at the left-hand bend of a three-way intersection. It was a cozy three-story apartment building, its facade washed out in the amber glow of streetlights. Right across from it was an abandoned building covered in mold and grime, the windows boarded over. A street sign announced that this was a one-way street; vehicles had to circle round and come down the other end.

  The intersection hosted a bustling cafe. Diners packed the cafe and overflowed into the street, occupying every available table and chair. Live music filled the air. Scooters lined the roads.

  As we passed, I casually glanced at the abandoned building, looking for signs of surveillance: gaps in the boards, disturbances in the patterns of mold and grime, curtains or plastic sheets, lenses or people where there shouldn’t be any. Approaching the cafe, I pretended to be a tourist peering at the band. In my peripheral vision, I scanned the patrons, looking for people more interested in the safe house than the music or each other.

  We headed down the main stem of the intersection. There were no cars here but plenty of passers-by. A man and a woman left a house, and arm in arm they strolled down the street. A pair of youths, bedecked in helmets and riding gear, mounted a scooter. No one showed any unusual interest in the safe house.