by Aeryn Leigh
Urgent sounds now from the machine.
"I don't understand, I don't understand," her words a jumble of German and English.
Silence.
More movement behind her. The passage of air upon her face as overhead a metal stretcher floated by, heading right to where she'd left Rob. Ella attempted to move once more. Another burst of words, this time short and abrupt. "Yes? Or no? I don't understand."
The diagram disappeared. The floating picture disappeared. Shimmering wings grew from the dagger's handle, and its handle flexed ever so slightly. A dragonfly. A huge dragonfly. It rotated on its horizontal axis until the needle tip faced her.
Then it waited.
And she waited until the floating stretcher brought back Rob and sled together, placing him down gently next to her.
A small blue light emerged, but this time scanned Rob. Another projection in front of her, showing Rob's injuries. Terse sounds. Yes or no? The dragonfly dagger moved all the way up and hovered right in front of her face, and Ella could see a multitude of eyes regarding her.
Metal eyes. In a metal body.
It waited for a response, wings humming. Ella tried to outstare the dragonfly. Its eyes flicked upward for the briefest of moments. Did you just roll your eyes at me? That's it, I'm hallucinating, she thought.
Snick. A small, thin, razor-sharp blade descended.
Chapter Eighty-Two
RUNES
IT STARED STRAIGHT AT HER, blinked, then the stretcher split and moved to either side, in a sea of blue light around her, and Ella rose into the air. The smell of ozone, the freshness of rain after a long, hot summer's day.
The dragonfly's humming intensified, as if building up charge, slowly descending until the blade from below its belly stopped millimetres from her throat.
Run Ella, run. The muscles wouldn't obey. The pitch plateaued. It shot forward as she tried to scream and the dragonfly darted this way and that, and her clothing fell off, cut to pieces. Touch my gloves and I will kill you — and it paused — and left the gauntlets untouched, but now she laid naked, and utterly exposed. From the long tubes on her left and right, rows of mechanical arms unfolded, hands ending in Gott knows what surgical equipment and Ella watched a circular saw-blade aim straight for her upper thigh, the leg with the spear sticking out. The blade punched down into her flesh spinning at high rpm, and even though she experienced no pain she still felt the mechanical vibration of bone up her spine as her entire leg from below her left groin was amputated, blood fountaining up and hitting the inside of the blue energy field — then a viscous blue goo inundated the spurting stump, as orange liquid covered the removed leg and alien limb-spear, and her severed limb was immolated in a single dazzling flash.
Arms folded back, away, then others telescoped out over her midsection.
Dozens of small blue-tipped scalpels and writhing metal snakes poised above her abdomen, and the dragonfly moved to the side of Ella's head, and landed on her right shoulder. Its wings stopped, and it gently lowered one shimmering wing onto her cheek, the wing warm, comforting.
Through the saline liquid coming from her eye she tried to smile.
Surgical arms started with a blur, moving rapidly and her belly cut open as a small projection from the dragonfly displayed the operation in real time.
The source of all the pain over all those years every verdammt month, the agonising childbirth. Section by section, her entire reproductive system was cut away as silver tube snakes twisted and turned to gain access without cutting muscles, tendons, or intestines and all the while, multiple flashes of orange as each piece disintegrated.
Ella tore her attention away from the display to her bits of clothing in the far corner of her vision.
To her right, tucked inside one of the folds of lamb’s wool, rested Amelia's folded letter. A corner had been sliced off. But Amelia's letter to her was on the back of her school homework. Homework about the Vikings. Viking greetings and basic phrases. If only she could reach it.
But now she rose even further into the air. Toward the giant, armoured suit. Naked, bar for the gauntlets and the twin pair of necklaces, missing one leg, the stretcher spun around and tilted forward as her nervous system flooded with adrenaline to cushion the fall, but she didn't. The metal columns either side expanded in width so Ella, suspended by blue energy was seated inside the armoured giant.
Her arms went down separate sleeves. Her one leg down the leg hole. The back half of her head settled into what felt like a helmet as something shaved the side of her head.
Metal plates spun and whirled as coiled tubes snaked out and glued themselves to her flesh all over and the armour closed around her with one last pneumatic hiss and Ella's claustrophobia erupted in the pitch-black just for a second until she too, faded into black.
SHE AWOKE in the dark of night. Moonlight shone through the windows, casting all around her in serene beauty. For the briefest of sensations of time it felt just like a dream. Just exactly like a dream. Some horrible, wicked dream. She could see through both eyes. She could wiggle her toes. One set of toes.
Fear dragged her stomach down into the abyss yet again as reality came crashing in. What she could see was being displayed right in front of her eyes. Viking text and runes swirled past, writhing knots eating themselves to infinity all around the edges of the display.
In a panic, she tried moving her hands. Her fingers could just move. That was it. Two thumbs, eight fingers, and five toes.
She couldn't see Rob. The stretcher had disappeared, only the sled remained. Helena rested neatly on top of it, the Drilling parallel to the sled's sides. To her left she noticed one of the other armoured figures had moved position. Rob better be in there.
And that damned dragonfly. Where the hell had that gone to?
Ella involuntarily leapt back as the dragonfly suddenly filled her entire vision. Her mind did anyway, as her body was not going anywhere. The dragonfly held the letter in a little beam of blue. Then dropped it. A little symbol appeared in the bottom right of the display as the dragonfly dagger docked inside the forearm and the symbol disappeared.
Ella swore long and hard. The voice echoed slightly in the interior enclosed space. Amelia's letter had fallen by her feet, outside the field of vision. But another voice rumbled inside her head. Yes or no? it sounded like. She did her best to imitate the first half of the phrase, the same sound Snorri made when he answered Beowulf.
In the middle of the display popped up a photograph of the letter showing the front and back of it side by side.
In Amelia's handwriting, the page full of exercises included three things repeatedly. The word in English. The word in Viking phonetically. And something that looked like runes.
The runes that littered all over the projection and scrolling text.
Trapped inside a metal suit, missing one leg, her daughter on the other side of the world and her immediate family doing Gott knows what, Ella got to work.
Chapter Eighty-Three
MESS HALL
THE SURVIVORS FELL upon the mess hall, and the stores of food. Others shambled toward the shower blocks, and under the cold falling water rinsed off years of caked on filth. In the distance, the fifteenth load of soldiers creaked to a stop at the top, and made their way down to the mess hall, directed by a few of the Vikings who now started the labour of lowering the elevator once more.
Griffin contemplated the twin lock barring access to the armoury. This was a job for Merrion. He turned around, and jumped. Merrion stood right behind him. "Damn you can sneak up on a man."
"Thank you," said Merrion, moving around Griffin and kneeling in front of the complex mechanisms. "Although I didn't expect you to jump like that."
"Heh. This place gives me the heebie-jeebies. Can you get it open?"
"I believe so. In time. Don't look at me like that."
"Take all the time you need, Lieutenant Colonel."
Merrion twisted around. Smiled. "No need for that now, Gunnery Sergea
nt. Ah, Captain John."
Laurie's face fell. "Formalities from now on, huh?" He sighed. And stood ramrod straight. Saluted. "Thought I escaped that from Earth. Sir."
Merrion snorted. "Both of you, cut it out." He paused, and turned back to the locks. "That's an order."
"Yes, sir!" said both bomber men. Their moment of levity ended as Major Brutowsky walked up and saluted.
"Lieutenant Colonel, the general wants to know when the armoury will be available."
"Without any further interruptions, very soon, Major Brutowsky."
"Very well, sir." His expressionless face took in both standing men. "You two. Come with me. We need to suppress the riot in the mess hall."
The three hurried down the stone passageways, back to the mess hall, where men and women who hadn't eaten properly in months, stuffed themselves with food.
Laurie swore at the scene in front of them. "If they eat too much they'll die from ruptured stomachs."
The major grimaced, and yelled out an order to stop. A few looked up, mouths full, but the now over two-hundred majority kept right at it, gorging.
"Sergeant," said Laurie.
Griffin raised his MP 40 and strode into the middle of the room. He pointed at the vast, high ceiling and held down the trigger for a full second. In the sudden quiet, the faint patter of stone chips and plaster.
"All yours, major," said Laurie, saluting.
OVER HALF of the army assembled in the mess hall, as what remained of the army's squad leaders regained some sense of discipline, rationing out small portions of food only to those who'd stripped, showered, and clothed themselves in the Inka battle uniforms sourced from the barracks. They limited the clothing to just the pants and a long-sleeved linen shirt, leaving the hated symbols of the Inquisition marines, the three-quarter length battle jackets, where they hung.
The strongest relieved the Vikings operating the elevator, and slowly but surely, what remained of the First and Last reformed and came back to life.
Behind the mess hall, the Inquisition scientists, stripped of their weapons, sat in the laundry room, out of sight of the Republic army and their rage.
In front, watching them, stood General Versetti, her face a storm cloud of emotions and Captain John, his right eyebrow twitching.
"I should kill them where they stand. It would be a merciful death compared to what they did to us."
Laurie thought of the test animals too. "That, General, would be too easy."
"You still have not explained why they should live. Merrion found the papers yes? We only need the one called Reginald. The rest are moot."
Laurie took a deep breath. "Just call it a hunch, General. Before their time of judgement, they're an asset. They've already proved themselves capable of killing their own."
"Well, Captain, I'd suggest keeping them away from the troops, lest any wandering swords find the meat of their necks."
Laurie went to speak, something about they already had, but stopped. "Yes, General."
Mick came running up, and gave the roughest salute he could, making even Laurie wince. "General, the armoury is unlocked."
"Very well, Sergeant Ward, was it? Stay and guard the — prisoners. Captain, with me." She slammed the door behind them.
Now we know where Marietta gets that from, thought Laurie. The pair soon stood at the armoury entrance, and Laurie noticed Merrion's right hand swathed in bandages.
Standing around the man in black, waited Griffin, Beowulf, and Brutowsky, the Major barring access. Griffin and Beowulf positively bounced up and down, shifting from one foot to the other. So many weapons, exotic and banal, so many armour sets, so little time.
"General," said Brutowsky, saluting. A second later, so did Griffin, after Merrion nudged him in the ribs.
"Major, let them through. You've just volunteered to be our quartermasters. I want each legion squad fitted in double time, gentlemen. And an inventory of what's in there yesterday. Go."
Both men tried going through the door, and since they were big boys, there were a few awkward moments of trying to let the other through first, and like kids in an all-you-can-eat candy buffet store, they raced down the aisles in opposite directions trying to get to the nastiest stuff first.
For the first time in years, General Sarah Versetti laughed. "Men."
Chapter Eighty-Four
PAINKILLER
IN HER PROFESSIONAL lifetime as a test pilot Ella had studied her fair number of technical manuals and specifications of experimental aircraft. Never had she needed to learn a manual in a foreign language using only her mind. She couldn't take notes, or write problems down on a piece of paper. Only commands from her mouth, her voice.
She sighed and went back to the start yet again, her eyes moving to the top of the displayed electronic page.
Hello, my name is Amelia. How are you today? She counted the number of vowels and consonants and checked them against the runic script two lines below. Okay so the letter a, o, y, and e were the same, in English at least. It would be so much easier if it was displayed in German. Trying to work out Viking — no Norse — language via an already halting second language seemed to be leading her around in circles, so at one point she decided to try her native tongue and translate that into Norse.
It hadn't worked. Or maybe it had. Ella tried to hold back the sensation of going mad, trapped inside a metal sarcophagus unable to see anything bar the display projected in front of her eyes, and once more thought of Amelia and held onto that tendril of hope. She'd lost her leg, a chunk out of her left forearm, and gods only knew how much of her internal reproductive organs.
No pain, but the sensation of pins and needles in those locations. She hadn't felt the need to relieve herself either since being put in the suit, or for that matter, felt hungry or thirsty.
She stopped that thought process before it spiralled out of control. Amelia. Something flared in the back of her mind, a new realisation of what she might be doing wrong. She tried again.
Ella spoke phonetically, in Norse. Hello, my name is Ella Gruder.
The suit spoke back.
Valkjur.
FEAR. Such crippling fear. The rays of sunlight advanced across the room one fraction of an inch further than the last dust motes. The voices in her head circled, repeatedly asking the same phrases. Valkjur. Who are you? Where is your blood kin of Odin-blood? And the last one: Are you ready to die? The words formed in her mouth, on her lips, but the sound to make them bleed out at the back of her throat.
I do not want to die. I am Ella Gruder. Amelia. Ummm? Amelia is back at Fairholm?
"Are you ready to die?"
She watched the sunbeam kiss the outermost armoured figure with her heart pounding. I can't die. I need to protect Amelia.
"Are you ready to die?"
She could not move. She tried to run but again her whole body lay imprisoned within the metal and ceramic shell. The fear she'd spent her whole life running from. Keeping busy, always working, all the painkillers and drugs, always distracting herself, running, running, running.
Then it dawned on her, in all the suffering.
The daemon laid inside her head. No matter how far she ran, you couldn't outrun your own head. Wherever she went, it went. The fear of death. Your own mortality. Richthofen. Earhart. Kings and Queens. Her parents. Helena. All dead.
In the time it took the sunlight to transverse the elevated platform, from the far edge, past the massive figure sitting on the throne, and reach the feet of her own suit, Ella Gruder at last accepted the fate of all living things. Even suns and stars die one day, millions and millions of years away.
When the sunlight reached her face, or whatever shield passed for the visor helm, she accepted her fate. Amor Fati.
"I am ready to die."
In front of her eyes, an entire Universe of possibilities opened.
Ella Gruder died. And was reborn.
Painkiller.
Chapter Eighty-Five
DISMISSED
> ON THE ONE-HUNDRED and ninetieth elevator load, it broke. The winding mechanism sheared its wooden teeth, and the primary gear unspooled, sending the fourteen soldiers on the platform, almost near the top, plummeting to the ground, along with it. Andrew and the others made a lunge for the ropes disappearing over the edge, even though if they had caught hold, they would have been pulled over too.
The elevator smashed onto the rocks, pulverising wood and bone alike, limbs and timbers snapping, firecrackers amongst the screams cut short.
At least five-hundred and fifty souls, gazed upon the wreckage, and the single lantern above, and realised, short of a miracle, here they would die.
A BURST of gunfire far away. The assault team snapped around, ears straining. Short, controlled bursts. A mixture of .50cal and MP 40 fire. They'd rescued only shy of three-thousand survivors of the First and Proud, three-thousand hardened, battle-formed veterans.
Not enough.
Especially in their condition. Gaunt, sunken cheeks, skin hanging off in flaps, their fresh clothing billowing like sailcloths. Some, a lot of them, could not lift the weapons they'd been issued.
Beowulf and Laurie led the charge back down the mess hall, Griffin right behind and his Betty out front. They stormed up the steps and up to the feet of the golden thrones.
Stopped.
Nothing here.
More shots. Short burst after short burst, the assault squad knowing the maths of what ammunition reserves Moss and Hilda had.
One last burst of gunfire.
The .50cal fell silent.
Empty.
Laurie went to step forward, and then the voice of authority. "Who gave you permission to engage, Captain?"
Captain John stiffened. "No one, Major."
"That's right. From this point on, consider your team relieved."