by Aeryn Leigh
She picked up the small container of melted water, leftover from her filling of water canteens and skins, and lifted the enamel cup to Rob's lips, and trickled the water into his mouth, making sure he didn't choke. She took a sip herself. Ella ran through the mental list of his injuries, and once more checked the visible ones. A nasty bump on his left temple, from smashing into the side of the fuselage after fixing the engine. Cuts and bruises from either the dogfight or landing. And the bullet wound on his left thigh, where an Inka bullet ripped through surface flesh. The bandage seemed to be working, no more blood loss.
Right. She used a section of timber to lever his upper torso up, then shoved the sled under him with her boot, repeating the process with his legs.
The sun was high overhead when Ella finished getting him down safely and onto the smooth tunnel floor, the sunbeams illuminating the pile of rock and fallen debris with little shadow.
Quickly, she tied the duffel bag onto the end of the sled, the woollen blanket over Rob, the Drilling's hard-case under his head with some cloth padding, and made one last check to ensure everything was how it should be. Ella took a deep breath and sighed, stepped over the aileron cable now looped on the ground, and lifted it up to her waist.
Just three more things. The pocket compass on her right wrist showed the entrance just north behind her. She reached into her top pocket and pulled out the USAF-issue TL 122-A flashlight, mercifully unbroken through two crash-landings now, and depressed the side button. Battery-powered light streamed through the red filter, and she placed it back in her top pocket, lens hanging out.
The red light poured down the tunnel, blood and black. With one hand on the cable wrapped with canvas straps to keep it from falling, she squatted and picked up the M30 Drilling hunting rifle, hoisting Helena into the crook of her arms.
Her eye squinting with determination, surrounded by family tokens and members, she thanked the gods for low friction coefficients, and took a step forward, toward the unknown.
Chapter Seventy-Three
SPITFIRES AND HURRICANES
ELLA LOST track of how long they'd been walking. Had to be hours now. The tunnel had proceeded with ruler-edge straightness south for at least two miles before curving gently to the east for another few hundred yards, then curving again left for a much longer section of straight, the tunnel now devoid of engravings, and turning left once again.
The roof of the tunnel started to fill with stalactites, and underneath on the floor, stalagmites. She prodded one with her foot, and it slid easily away.
She stopped, and took a break after giving Rob some more water, her back against the stone wall, and turned off the flashlight to save battery. In the pitch black, Ella devoured the piece of dried fish.
The air was cold. Not quite stale, but not fresh either. The sound of her and Rob's breathing echoed in the silence, punctuated by the occasional drip of falling water.
Ella racked her memory. Didn't these mineral formations take hundreds and thousands of years to form, drip by drip? Plop. Silence. Plop. Ah hell. Her bladder. She backtracked her way via torchlight a few dozen yards and relieved herself, adding her own contribution to the little mineral mound.
She resumed their trek, one footstep after another, dragging the sled behind her. The mineral formations became more frequent, then the tunnel sloped ever so slightly downward, the sled crunching over the long, thin, snaking lines of miniature streams as water and minerals flowed downhill.
Forward. Left. Forward. Left. On and on. Ella started reciting technical manuals in her head to keep the voices of worry at bay, the monotonous steps of her feet as her lower back started to hurt, and her thigh and leg muscles burned.
The light of the torch faded — or was it her imagination? Ella couldn't tell, so she turned the torch off once the next section came into view, memorising any detritus in the way.
At some point, she stopped, and slept with her back against the sled, passing out involuntarily, for what should have been just a quick rest. Her muscles burned upon waking with a start, Ella disorientated and groggy with fatigue, her neck sore from sleeping in an awkward position.
She flicked the torch on. The dim red glow forced the shadows back, and Rob moaned, the sound startling, the mutterings unintelligible. Adrenaline flooded her system, as she realised what it was. Who it was. Finally, Rob was coming to. She tended to him, wiped the sweat from his brow. And the other orders of personal care that needed doing, because that's what you do.
THE PAIR of D-cell batteries were all but exhausted. Ella talked to Rob about the flight performance of Messerschmitt Bf-109's, and how the various models performed against captured Supermarine Spitfires and Hawker Hurricanes. Long past the point of noticing she was talking to herself, or that she spoke in German, or the air was getting warmer, or that the tunnel sloped upward at times or downward, Ella used the polished walls as a physical guide, and shuffled ever onward.
Ella adjusted the canvas-covered steel for the millionth time and shifted Helena to her other arm, the barrel resting over her shoulder.
Something scraped behind her. Faintly at the edge of her hearing, something moved. She stopped dead. The hairs rose on the back of her neck as waves of barely noticeable chittering rolled over them, sound echoing down the dark corridor.
Ella shook her head. The sound disappeared. Her heart pounding, she strained to hear. Just her and Rob's breathing. She clicked on the torch, and got a few seconds of feeble glow before it faded. Nothing.
Ella took up the slack in the cable with renewed vigour and pulled, this time with her mouth shut.
An indeterminate while later, it came yet again, a little louder. Alien chittering. Squeaks and high-pitched screams at the bare edges of hearing. In the belly of the mountain, in abyssal blackness, Ella fought the rising panic and terror welling from some primal part deep in her cerebral cortex, and lost.
ELLA MOVED BACKWARD, the cable hard on her lower back, her hands gripping the gun tight as her right shoulder bumped repeatedly against the curving wall. Her mouth parched, lips dry, all she heard was the roaring of blood in her ears and the monstrous, rhythmic scraping sounds of whatever was following her. In 6/8 time.
Soldiers? Soldiers dragging swords, beating out a military tattoo? No, it could not be. Could it? What else might it be? Bears? No bears are much deeper pitched. I think. Insects? How could they be that loud? Cicadas? They might be that loud since everything reverberates in here. Yes, that's it, grasshoppers. Musical grasshoppers. Musical grasshoppers carrying swords that are dragging across stone floor. Grasshoppers carrying swords. Grasshoppers carrying giant swords. Giant cicadas carrying giant swords dragging them, oh fuck, save me, save us, run Ella run, turn around pull on that sled get out of here get —
Stone smacked hard into her forehead, and she collapsed backward onto the sled behind while it was still moving, it bumping against her boots as she toppled onto Rob and unconsciousness claimed her.
Chapter Seventy-Four
ONE LAST MEETING
THE MORNING TURNED INTO MIDDAY, then into early afternoon. The Inquisition massed beyond the next section wall, as the assault team held one last meeting.
"So, gentlemen, what's the good and the bad news?" said Laurie.
"Leifur and Etna are dead," said Mick, looking at Beowulf. "Their injuries were horrific."
Laurie looked toward the private gardens. It had turned into a beautiful blue, sunny day. Those Inka bastards. Jesus, they had no fear. A solid line of marines stood upon the far wall, for a few hours, not soon into which Laurie gave the signal to stop firing to conserve dwindling ammunition. No matter how many they killed, more stood, and took their place.
There were more enemies than bullets. The introduction and willpower programs training those marines must be incredible, to follow that order. The captain turned his attention back to the group.
"Merrion, Andrew, do you have what we need?"
Andrew began to speak but Merrion cut him off with a hand w
ave. "Yes, Captain." Andrew let out a sigh, and nodded.
"Very well." The Inquisition and their bullshit. Would they just charge their position with their remaining strength and end it?
Why are they waiting.
Why. Are. They. Waiting?
"Griffin? Beowulf? At this point our only option is to abandon our position and fight our way inside that mountain, find and rescue the First and Proud. And if we are still alive by that point, make our way back out and down the section gates to the boats. End of story. Any questions?"
No one said anything.
Not even Mick.
Laurie whistled a big band tune, suddenly cheery.
Moss cried out from above. Laurie turned around. The line of marines was gone. Through the portcullis and destroyed tanks, clouds of billowing yellow fog wafted gently uphill.
"Gas." Three letters. Laurie's blood turned to ice as he began yelling and his limbs felt as logs as he reached down and picked up the autocannon not noticing the weight nor Mick darting forward and helped lift the end, a two feet of linked belt flapping from it. Griffin hefted Betty over one shoulder with an unholy shout and Hilda squat-lifted the canvas bag of ammo and spent cartridges and, all of them yelling at once, they ran back into the maze of buildings toward the higher courtyard.
"Building Seven," said Laurie, to Andrew, Beowulf, and Moss, who split off at the first fork in the road. "Merrion, the prisoners." He got a wave in reply, as he and Mick lugged the autocannon though the cobblestone streets with Hilda right behind and the remaining Vikings bringing up the rear with the half-burnt M2 Browning.
A gentle breeze. Little more than walking pace. Five minutes? Ten? How long did they have until the gas reached the courtyard wall? Every second was critical and Laurie racked his brain thinking of alternative options for breaching the mountain doors and gaining entrance to the dungeon catacombs that sat within. Finally, they ran past the last of the research buildings and under the portcullis into the open parade ground area and the broken gliders.
Puffing slightly, Laurie eased down his end of the 20mm cannon next to the heavy machine gun covering the mountain door. He bent over, hands upon his knees and took deep lungfuls of air. He stood up and whistled, one hand massaging his chin. He turned around in a slow circle and took stock.
"Hilda, up onto that guard tower and let us know when it hits the research wall. Mick set those gliders alight. Burn every piece you can find."
Beowulf and the others came into the courtyard carrying the toys from Building Seven, the prisoners right in front. Merrion herded the forty-two scientists over to one side as the equipment was ever so gently laid down on the cobblestones.
Two portable flamethrowers and four spare tanks for them.
"Did you get the grenades?" said Laurie. Andrew gingerly placed the sack from over his shoulder onto the stones.
"All the potato mashers as I could find." There was a whoosh of flames to their left as the first glider went up like a Roman candle. Both of his hands shook. Andrew’s breaths were short, shallow.
"Breathe, mate, breathe," said Mick, on his way past to the other glider. "We may get out of this yet."
"Reckon we might," said Laurie, sizing up the fifteen-foot-high wooden double doors, each wide enough to drive a tank through. "We can blow the hinges off with the autocannon but then we'd have nothing to barricade behind us, let alone stop the gas." Does the entrance inside go uphill or downhill? Would the gas even follow?
"We could always knock," yelled Mick twenty yards away, lighting a severed section of wing.
"It's worth a try," said Griffin. "We at least have to try opening it and hopefully find out where the crossmembers are." Beowulf nodded.
Hilda called out, waving frantically from the guard tower.
"Andrew, help me out with this pack, would you?" Seconds passed as Laurie and Andrew struggled to get the flamethrower pack on, rudimentary canvas straps biting hard into each shoulder. How the fuck does this thing even operate? He held the long stick at arm’s length. Griffin came to his side.
"Here, Captain," he said. "Prime the pump with this lever here and once it is lit pull on the trigger, but only for a couple of seconds, no more."
"Right," said Laurie. "Cover us with the Deuce." The assault team ran up to the wooden door. Large iron O-rings set about chest height, the hardwood door banded by strips of iron. Left or right?
Right. "On the count of three." Griffin took hold of the handle. He nodded. One, two, three. Griffin twisted the O-ring as five of them pushed against it. The door didn't move. Okay, the other side. No luck. "Okay, pull it open." Still no joy.
Hilda called out from the guard tower. "It's halfway through the buildings."
"Griffin," said Laurie, "make us a hole."
They went back to the piles of equipment sixty yards away and stood whilst Griffin set up the autocannon directly in front of the door, right next to the set-up Browning, Hilda aiding.
Griffin glanced at Hilda who was back down from the tower now. She held the last section of linked belt in her hands. Griffin pulled on the stub of steel. Each alternating giant armour-piercing and incendiary round punched through wooden fibres and with fifteen rounds remaining stopped firing.
In the right-hand gate at belly height a hole, large enough for a head to poke through, smouldered.
Laurie was already running to the side of the doors as their position came under attack. Bullets whizzed by as the defenders fired through the opening and for the first time since landing, the Browning set up to cover the mountain entrance fired in response as the remaining team ran to either side.
Andrew twisted the end of the grenade and slammed it through the gaping hole, hearing it land on rock inside.
Muffled shouts.
Nothing.
The grenade came sailing back out of the hole.
The team dived away as the potato masher tumbled and clinked on the stones. And sat there.
Through the stone archway at the courtyard wall, gas rolled through.
Fuck. Fuck. Beowulf leapt for the grenade and in a single motion picked it up and threw it high into the air toward the approaching gas. The grenade didn't even land, exploding midair with a savage bang.
Laurie snarled. He pumped the primer with his left hand. "Light me." Griffin flicked his Zippo and the end of the flame thrower stick burned with a bluish-orange flame. He held two fingers up at Andrew. Nodded at Mick. Took a breath. Whistled.
Mick shoved the front of his MP 40 into the hole and emptied the clip, pulling it out and now Laurie stepped forward and into the hole placed the barrel and with a silent prayer depressed the trigger, one-thousand and one, two-thousand and two, and released as a huge rush of air sucked through the hole and fed the conflagration within.
"Andrew." With the two wooden handles together, he twisted and for the second time pushed both grenades through.
The roar of flames and screaming. Tinkling. Detonations. Laurie poked his head through and twisted it around expecting any moment to get a bullet in the cranium and in the firelight and shadows and half-darkness saw the single wooden beam barring entry across both doors.
He whipped his head back out but not before he got the merest glimpse of the entryway full of mangled and burning soldiers and the tunnel sloping upward.
Laurie smacked his right hand hard against the wood two feet above the hole and dived flat against the ground as Griffin unleashed the last of the 20mm rounds manufactured halfway across the galaxy in Manchester and bought them entrance.
The courtyard wall could barely be seen in the yellow mist.
With a creak and snap of remaining timbers they pushed the door open and fell upon the enemy.
Chapter Seventy-Five
DRAFTED
GENERAL SARAH MARIETTA VERSETTI lifted her head. Muffled explosions. Tiny little bangs. No louder than the plops of falling water, teardrops from the damp rocks high overhead, landing in shallow pools of water. Their drinking water.
With
one hand, she moved matted brown hair from her face, and stood, listening.
Nothing but her heart for long moments, and the shuffling, odd sounds of moaning from three-thousand odd men and women, imprisoned in this large, quarter-mile open pit. The soft clinks of chains rubbing together. The occasional clang as also high overhead the crude wooden elevator bumped into the rock face in the underground currents, as its sibling sat just out of arms reach above the muck-covered floor.
The only way in or out. Food, or what passed for it came in. In exchange for a half dozen soldiers at a time. Food went down. Bodies went up. Only the living ones.
The only light source, a single oil lamp far overhead, mounted next to the platform nesting the elevator. A tug on her sleeve.
"General." The voice was granite, indomitable. Male.
Sarah held up a finger. Further small pops, the sound waves echoing in the amphitheatre. She turned and regarded the scar-covered face of her best friend, the man she'd gone to Hell with, and might just come back out with. "Major Brutowsky. Assemble the First and Proud." What's left of it.
"Yes ma'am," he replied, saluting then limping away, barking commands.
General Versetti, mother of Marietta, devoted patriot of the Republic, stared up at the small, twinkling light.
"OKAY," said Merrion, "let's go," as the rest of the team stormed through the entrance, guns chattering. "You and you, pick up those boxes. You two, those. Quickly, get a move on, or I'll leave you here for the gas."
The Inquisition scientists, hands bound in front of them, picked up the collection of confiscated material and staggered toward the mountain door, passing Griffin and Hilda each dragging a gun behind them, not wanting the Inquisition to get hold of such advanced weaponry, not intact at least.