by Aeryn Leigh
Marietta awaited them at the airfield upon their return, pacing up and down, heard the reports, and retreated to the War Room, fingers massaging her temples.
What could cause the entire enemy forces to retreat?
She was still lost in worry when the city above her erupted in celebrations, as the news spread.
Laurie made his way to the small landing and leaned over. "Who is in command down there?"
A strong, clear voice yelled back. "Identify yourself." The voice of command, Laurie realised.
Laurie cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed back. "Squadron Leader Lawrence John, of the Royal Australian Air Force, ah — from Earth — now Captain Laurie John of the Republic."
Silence.
Heartbeats went by. "Look we don't have time for this. You can stay down that bloody hole and rot for all I care, but dammit we need your help. Who is in charge?"
Merrion moved to Laurie's side and put one hand on his arm. "Let me," he said. "This is not an Inquisition trick," he called down to the army. "It is I, Merrion Blackheart, Knight Praefecti of the Roman Ninth Legion, Lieutenant Colonel of the Republic's First Reconnaissance, and loyal and trusted friend of the Versetti’s."
A pause.
"If it is Merrion, and you most certainly sound like him, what happened on Marietta's sixteenth birthday? "
Merrion went red. "I have no idea, since I wasn't there."
"Because?"
"I was grounded," through gritted teeth.
"For?"
An exasperated sigh. "For smuggling in five flasks of wine, and the dancing troupe from Emmerhill. On her fifteenth birthday."
"It is him."
"How many are there of you?"
"Three-thousand, four hundred and twelve souls."
Three-and-a-half thousand dead in a little under two years. Damn. Laurie shook his head.
"Send down the elevator and lift us up there. We will talk face-to-face."
Andrew considered the elevator and did the maths. "The winch-and-rope elevator looks like it could hold twelve, maybe fifteen at a time, Captain. It would take all day to get them out." According to Andrew’s wristwatch, it took just under a minute for the elevator to creak and groan to the bottom of the pit, three men straining at the winding winches, then just over a minute to come back. He did the maths. "About ten hours, Captain."
The elevator swung to a halt and its occupants stepped off. Bones and skin wrapped in rags.
But upfront, next to a degraded, granite-block of a man, leading the six soldiers behind them, stood a woman, proud and erect, shining an indomitable radiance and presence that instantly reminded Laurie and the others of Marietta. The family resemblance was uncanny.
The man next to her stepped forward. "Major Brutowsky, Captain. Thank you for your help. But as of this moment, we are taking command. Blackheart, begin lifting the soldiers out at once. Captain John, you may disarm and hand over your weapons. You will not be needing them any longer." He snapped his fingers and the figures behind moved.
Merrion started forward, but Laurie stopped him with an outstretched arm. "Listen mate, I don't take orders from people I don't know. Especially when I'm surrounded by unknown forces. And after what happened with his lot," pointing at a bemused Beowulf and his kin, "I'd die before giving up my weapons."
For the faintest of moments, Laurie thought the general smiled. But then she spoke. "Captain John, what is your plan?"
"Ah, rescue you, then escape."
"Escape how?"
"Back down the mountain with your help. Then sail back to Fairholm after reuniting with our longships."
"Fight the division awaiting us with our ragtag army then if victorious, hope there are enough troopships to commandeer, is that it?"
"Ah, yes."
"You don't sound too confident."
"We're kind of making it up as we go along."
"Are you now."
"Well, yes, we didn't even know you were here." Laurie suddenly felt like he was back in fourth grade primary school. "Ma'am."
"Is that so."
"Marietta — General Marietta Versetti — sent us here to obtain research documents. It was supposed to be an easy in and out. Kinda."
"My daughter sent you on a suicide mission, didn't she?"
"The odds weren't great, no. But Merrion believed the fortress could be taken."
"And here you are. Barely a squad. Vikings by your side."
"Bloody oath." The two groups stared at each other. "You want to take command, fine. But no one takes my weapons or my squad. Or breaks it up. General."
"If that is your wish, so be it." She marched right up to him. "Disobey my orders once more, however, and I will throw you down that hole. Understood?"
"Yes, General."
Her green eyes wandered down and saw the sword close up for the first time. One eyebrow raised. "The King's Sword of Hffylson. And not on his son, Beowulf," tipping her head to the Viking, "but on you instead."
"My father is dead," said Beowulf, bowing ever so slightly.
"King Beowulf Hffylson, here as he lives and breathes. How are you mixed up with this lot? Never mind. Lieutenant Colonel, what is the status of our enemy and weaponry?"
"We defeated one battalion upon arrival, followed by a second. The third, inside this mountain, is nowhere to be seen bar token resistance. We believe the rest of the division is at the base of the fortress gates. As for weaponry, well — a sizable Inquisition armoury is just behind the throne room. And outside is full of poison gas," said Merrion.
"I see. Merrion, a private word please. Thank you, Captain. Take your men and hold the entrance of this tunnel. Dismissed. Oh, King Hffylson, if you could help get my army up, by all means do so. And what are those ugly metal sticks you are carrying?"
Merrion stood in front of General Versetti, as the elevator creaked in the near distance, the two of them alone. The single oil lantern flickered on the far rock wall. "We all thought you dead. I saw the mass burial pits myself, General. With uniforms from the First and Proud." He dropped his head.
"And the Council? They approved of this mission?"
"The Council is no more. Their heads were sent back in boxes, and were most certainly genuine."
General Versetti's eyes widened. "So, who is in charge?"
"Your daughter was promoted to general by the remaining military nobles and proclaimed the new Commander of the Republic via popular vote."
"And the Republic and her territories?"
Merrion sighed. "Only Fairholm remains. The Second Army was destroyed covering the retreat. An invasion fleet stands off the Bay of Harmony. We barely repulsed the first wave with the reserve Third, with the newcomers help, nine months ago. We sustained severe losses, the Third is effectively no more."
The words bounced off the stone. "Only Fairholm." Her lips snarled.
Merrion, a man not wholly unaccustomed to people's rage, shrank back as Sarah Versetti's anger turned ice-cold. "Marietta's plan was to steal the poison gas blueprints and use it against the Emperor. At this point, based on my projections, there is no way we can defeat the Inquisition given their resources and military personnel. It is a desperate plan, and foolish, yes."
"The act of pure desperation can sometimes show the path, dear nephew. Merrion, your calf dagger and holster. Thank you." She strapped the weapon to her bare right leg. Her voice a monotone. "I cannot stand half-measures, treating us as forgotten vermin, or such treachery at the Truce Accords. They should have killed us when they had the chance. And for that, and their sick tortures, Gods help me Merrion, I will exterminate every single last one, just like my daughter intends."
She reached down and pulled out the dagger, its blade gleaming in the soft light. "Major?" Brutowsky made his way over, and saluted. She began cutting off her dreadlocked hair, until only stubble remained on her head. "We are not the First and Proud anymore. As of this moment, we are the First and Last. Pass the word." She sheathed the dagger, and dropped th
e last section of matted hair. "Vale the First and Proud."
Chapter Seventy-Nine
It All Ends Now
Fire. Flame. An inferno of pain. Her life amounted to nothing. Dying in the depths of hell, betraying the trust and responsibility of those who loved her. Amelia begged her to stay, yet she left. Helena begged her to stay, and still she broke her heart, as her girlfriend cried at the train platform in London, as Ella departed with Amelia and Victoria, in the spring of '38.
And because of that, Helena and her child Elizabeth returned to her birthplace in Hamburg, to be closer to her. Them.
Dead, because of her.
The daemon came toward her, glowing in ethereal green bioluminescent majesty, a picture of primal horror. Upside down on the roof of the tunnel, the giant half-spider half-mantis-cicada moved each of its eight limbs, with six on the roof — the front pair of limbs dangling all the way down to the floor where razor-sharp bones, wait, no its elbows scraped across the stone as in its hands, with opposable thumbs — it held the ripped off limbs of its smaller brethren like swords.
The nightmare was real. She couldn't move. The nightmare approached, and she tried to whimper but no sound came out then it was overhead and — it kept on going. A cluster of one thousand shining eyes gazed right at her and swivelled tracking her as it moved past, down the corridor, the sound of its rhythmic clicking like daggers in her mind.
She breathed out in relief. It turned, then stopped. The bulb eyes never broke eye contact as it moved back toward her, and the radiant glow faded as Ella scrambled backward, over Rob, moving on her hands and knees dragging the gun with her as those razor limbs opened wide as all faded to black —
Wait.
The gun.
She had a gun.
Ella Gruder carried a gun.
Her girlfriend was right with her, loyal even in death. Her girlfriend was the most beautiful, loyal, trusting, gentle lover of life she'd ever known but now she was the gun. The gauntlets on her hands. Helena was the protector of life, of love. Air rushed past her face as the daemon moved to point-blank range and Ella Gruder raised her girlfriend and whispered her name as her gloved fingers pressed both triggers and the Drilling spat violence. The explosion of light shattered the dark as two solid shotgun slugs and a large-bore rifle round bored right through the cluster of eyes and the daemon burst into green light as its momentum slammed into her side spinning her around.
Ella sprang upright as her leg glowed white-hot in pain. She didn't register the fact that she hadn't stayed upright as she fell back down bringing the butt of the hunting rifle down upon the daemon's head, and kept smashing it flat repeatedly as the daemon's hot liquid blood sprayed over her face. She screamed her lover's name and yelled into the abyss I am Ella, I love women, I will not hide it anymore. The lies end the deceit ends. It all ends now. I am sorry I am sorry.
And the abyss whispered back: thank you.
Ella Gruder slipped back into unconsciousness, her body shining.
Her eye flicked open. The body of the dead daemon filled her vision, glowing softly, bathing the tunnel in soft blue. She pulled herself upright, noticing she too, glowed where the blood had sprayed. One of its broken limb swords had pierced her calf, her left calf, the limb as thick as her big toe and covered in black furry spikes like a boar-bristled hairbrush.
It wasn't coming out. Her hands went to touch it, but something made her stop. Ella grimaced. She dragged herself and the gun over to Rob through the tangled limbs, through a narrow gap, and checked on him. Still breathing. The splatter of liquid covering her, and Helena glowed softly too.
Verdammt it hurt. Everything hurt.
She hadn't been dreaming. The monster was real.
The monsters were real, and they could be killed. She pulled out the metal case under Rob's head, lifted the lid and broke open Helena's stock, removed the empty shells and cartridge, and reloaded the gun, putting the empties back in the case.
The other gun. She swore as she realised the PPK pistol had been strapped to her right calf the whole time. Terror had insidious ways of messing with your logical self. OK, woman, you have two guns. Not that the Walther PPK would do much damage, looking right at the alien carapace, but still, better than nothing. With effort Ella replaced the case under his head, and fished out the last skin of fresh-melt. She gave some to Rob and took a mouthful just as the shakes started, as the trauma physically and mentally caught up to her and said hello, time for a good kicking.
The wormhole. Another world. Two suns. Giant metal robots and insects. Ella tried to shrug the avalanche of bizarre off, but it smothered her. The corpse of the massive alien creature lay just like a dead spider on a windowsill — upside down and legs up and bent.
She opened the duffel bag and rummaged around for the last remaining wad of painkiller leaves as the pain rolled across her in ebbs and flows. Munching on them, she used Helena as a crutch to get off the ground, and with the glowing limb stuck in her calf as light, dragged both her speared leg and the sled once more down the tunnel, chanting her daughter's name through grinding teeth.
Chapter Eighty
So Be It
Ella flitted in and out of consciousness. She could no longer hold her weight standing, as her leg with the alien spike had gone completely numb. But she kept moving, pulling the sled and Rob on her hands and one knee whenever she came round, the dim green light now feebly lighting the tunnel. Had she been down here for years? Months? Pain was her only friend, every time she awoke on the warm stone floor, her face smashed hard against it.
Pain. Moving. Amelia. Who was she? Another corridor, another bend, another blackout. My daughter. An illusion. There is just pain, and me.
It couldn't be long before she'd fall asleep and never wake up. Or was she already dead? Is this purgatory?
Just one more corridor. Didn't I say that last corridor?
Ella went around the corner, and saw the light. The pinprick of light an eternity away.
As the light grew larger, the corridor's floor deteriorated, the polished, smooth surface pockmarked with craters no bigger than a pea, and the tunnel begun to hold the bones and carcasses of the long dead.
The light. Ella towed Rob along the tunnel with renewed vigour even as the sled caught repeatedly on potholes. Weaving past the bones of humans and monsters, past dust-covered weapons, past other tunnel openings, until they reached the source of the light.
A massive doorway, and what lay inside sent the last vanguard of adrenaline shooting into her system, snapping her awake.
She stopped at the threshold.
A cathedral like no other lay before her, columns towering far into the air. A dozen Sistine Chapels would fit inside the space. At the rear, on the far end of the space, lead-light windows showed murals that would make Michelangelo weep in joy. Some were broken, and sunbeams streamed through, falling upon the centre dais.
And between the threshold and the dais, a mausoleum of the dead, hundreds and hundreds of the spider-things, some large, some small, but all just as capable of killing twenty-fold men in their sleep.
All around the cathedral, the signs of battle, broken pillars, bullet holes the size of her head taking chunks out of stone everywhere to be seen.
But the dais. The elevated dais which held a throne. A throne for a God. A silver-white armoured God sat in the mighty chair, surrounded by grey-black armoured figures ten-feet tall.
Next to the God, they looked like toddlers.
It looked like their last stand. Surrounding the dais the bodies of the vanquished.
There was no clear path to pull the sled. Leaving it, Ella crawled along the hallway, dragging her dead leg, one hand holding Helena, under arches of dust-covered limbs and over mounds of bones, in and out of craters, making her way to the dais.
The figure on the throne became clearer. It sat in the chair weary, but victorious. A wolf's head and pelt draped around one shoulder, a wolf large enough to give pause, as big as a mammoth’s skul
l. And the weapon it held across its lap. Mein Gott. In contrast to the giant god, of sleek lines and beauty, the weapon screamed Death with a capital D. Ugly as hell, pure, utter function over form.
Two-thirds across, Ella made a detour around an armoured spider — tank? so big it competed with the silver figure for sheer maddening size, a foot-wide hole vaporising, piercing right through it end to end. Through the hole, she could see the God's weapon of destruction.
She finished navigating the distance, and at last Ella reached the base of the platform.
On her hands and elbows, she fought the incline, and pulled herself along, up each step. The dais was clear of bodies, and in the shadows of the gigantic figures above she crawled. They too were covered in dust.
And so was the God, as she collapsed onto her back upon reaching the top. Everything in this room, was dead, long dead. She tried to laugh but couldn't. All this way, for help. For nothing. Her bones would join them.
The nearest armoured figure stood only meters away. A figure of engraved-metal death, holding in one steel fist a massive warhammer. The other arm had no hand, instead a sword ringed with thousands of tiny blades protruded outward, and an inbuilt Gatling-type gun in the forearm.
You. You bastard. You and your Gott summoned me here, and for what, to die? She shuffled sideways, until she came to its metal boots. You bastard. She slammed her fist against it. The pain was but a blip. Why?
Ella started crying. Her head fell upon the top of its boot, her hair spilling out, and tears fell for the first time in eons.
She halted the tears. It was silent, dust motes played in the sunbeams above.
So be it. Today is the day I die.
She closed her eye, and reached for her necklaces. One fell from her, oh, so tired fingers.