by Aeryn Leigh
"We are going to have to do something ‘bout those Inka Marines," said Griffin, "because we can't keep using the warship as a brig every damn night."
"I'm sure the Old Man and Beowulf have a plan." Mick eased up onto one elbow, raised the leather skin to his mouth, then spent the next few minutes coughing so hard he wished he was dead.
Eventually, Mick recovered and handed back the home-made liquor to a bemused Griffin. Griffin took a large mouthful, went pale for a second, swallowed, then rallied somewhat. "Damn smooth," he said hoarsely, thumping his chest.
"It would have been easier if they died back at the mountain," said Mick. "What the bloody hell do we do with a small battalion of enemy troops whose will is broken, having failed their Emperor, and then see the devil's own creatures damn near wipe them out? The Captain could have given the order to kill them, or leave them to their fate; hell, the Old Man is a ruthless bastard when his temper is up."
"He could have. He is a stone-cold killer. But," said Griffin, passing the liquor back, "he's our stone-cold killer."
"Isn't that Merrion?"
"Heh. Hot-blooded then. Just drink the damn thing will ya?"
BEOWULF HFFYLSON, King of Vikings, made his way up the well-worn gangway, humming to himself, then joined Magnus and Laurie on the command deck of the centuries-old warship. "Odin be praised, the repairs are complete. Tonight, we celebrate."
"Terrific," said Laurie. "We can at last get off this godforsaken rock." He stared down at the prisoners. "We need to take care of that problem, Beowulf. We don't have the manpower to keep guarding like this. One way or the other, we need to find where allegiances are. If not..." Laurie's right hand gripped the hilt of his sword, as his words trailed off, and Beowulf and Magnus exchanged looks, then nodded, grins forming.
A LITTLE WHILE LATER, even standing thirty feet away, Laurie could feel his facial skin cooking with the radiant heat from the Viking's 'small' bonfire, on the island's only wide, flat beach, the sand the colour of ash.
"Bigger!" said Beowulf to his right, and Laurie saw Beowulf waving his arms. "Odin wept, what part of bigger don't you ken?" as two of his kin then departed to gather more firewood, the island quite sufficient in flotsam from broken up warships.
"Jesus mate," said Laurie, walking up to Beowulf, "are you trying to cook us all?" His back was to the fire, which he regretted moments later, as the back of his trousers and tunic became white hot, causing him to jump around, swearing loudly.
In the distance, the first sun kissed the horizon.
Chapter Three
LET THEM BURN
GENERAL MARIETTA VERSETTI greeted her mother as she descended the last steps into the war room, surprised to find her and Merrion the only occupants of the room. "Wasn't there supposed to be a briefing starting soon?" she said, and looked towards Merrion Hawkwind, her lifelong friend, and found him uncharacteristically silent. Marietta did catch his mouthed words, his face unseen by her mother, and instantly Marietta felt a teenager all again. Caution. Trouble.
General Sarah Versetti, former leader of the Republic, captured at the disastrous truce accords and thought dead, along with her entire army, just pursed her lips and gestured for Marietta to sit down. "I cancelled the briefing, we have far more important matters to attend to."
"Such as?" said Marietta, sitting down at the long, wide, war table. "More pressing matters than seizing the initiative and pressing after the Inquisition retreat?" Her hand thumped the top of the table. "You have only been back a scant three weeks Mama, and already you undermine my authority."
Merrion gave a soft groan, and put his hands beside his head.
"You always were such an impetuous child. Headstrong, arrogant, so sure of herself."
Marietta gave a short laugh. "Now that is funny, coming from you. Seriously Mama, what is going on?"
Sarah's expression did not change. After being rescued from the Inquisition stronghold by the assault team, led by Captain John, unusually strong tailwinds had favoured the return journey all the way back to Fairholm. What had taken three months to travel there only took one month to return. And there was still no word from Laurie and the Vikings.
Upon their return, and celebration, Sarah Versetti had taken the group of captured Inquisition scientists, with the confiscated poison gas reserves, along with the papers Merrion had found, and announced she was taking charge of the Republic's Research and Development Unit.
The very thing Marietta had tasked the assault group to find, her mother had now seized control of.
"Significant progress has been made," said Sarah. "In fact, the results from the first test should be coming any moment now."
"What test?" said Marietta.
"I believe you’ve been having trouble with a group of prisoners from the captured dreadnought, have you not?"
"Yes?"
"Well if all went well, they won't be a problem anymore."
"You're testing it on them?"
"The sheer difference between us and them," said Sarah, "is the mere fact we are having this discussion. Three-thousand three-hundred and twelve souls, over half my army, the Republic's finest, used no better than animals in their sick experiments." She pointed at Merrion. "Ask him what he saw."
"That," said Marietta, "argument I have no brook with. What we thought we'd agreed on, was testing it on the battlefield, with the enemy armed, swords in their hands, not like pigs in a pen," her words spitting out, "otherwise we are no better than the Inquisition."
"It was your original proposal. It was you who tasked the off-worlders to gain this knowledge of chemical warfare, to be used against their cities whole. So why cold feet now?"
It's not cold feet. But why do my words always fail me when I talk to you? Always feeling like I am ten all again.
She looked around the dark room, and the oil lanterns flickering on the bunker walls. Marietta thought of the utter ruthlessness the Inquisition had displayed over the last few centuries. Entire towns, villages, cities, put to the fire, their occupants trapped inside. Or slaughtered in mass burial pits. And dozens more creatively evil ways of killing people, every year, for four centuries.
Her childhood friend took in her eyes, and Merrion sighed. Merrion had no love for the Inquisition, and could be just as ruthless in his devotion to the Republic.
And then the words of Charles Darwin, and his book in her library, floated into her mind. She gazed at her mama. And nodded. "Let them burn. Let them all burn."
Chapter Four
THE BEASTS OF FAIRHOLM
THE DRAGONFLY DARTED around Rob's head, seeming to take delight in buzzing close to the man's short, black hair then dashing away as Rob tried to flick it away.
"Is that thing always so damn annoying?"
"It has the mind of a child," said Ella, suppressing her smile. "It does simple tasks quite well, and mischievous ones, exceptionally so." The pang for Amelia flared, the sheer distance between her and daughter compounding the primal, raw, biological need to hug her daughter.
"I've known a few of them," said Rob, scratching his head. "So, all of this is some kind of, what, ancient Viking technology? Then why has it been abandoned for so long? And for that matter, what's the story with them?" He pointed at the multitude of dusty, alien corpses carpeting the entire cathedral's floor.
Ella went to scratch the highly annoying itch on her right leg, on the back of her calf, but her hand found nothing but air.
That's what so damn annoying, she thought, having maddening itches on a limb no longer there.
She paused her hand, breathed out, and turned her attention back to Rob who was now standing at the foot of the simply enormous, white, armoured suit sitting on its throne, holding one ugly gun, longer than an elephant, oozing destruction. The top of Rob's head barely reached the middle of the figure’s plated shin.
Ella eased herself up from the sled she'd been resting on, put the makeshift crutches under her arms and joined Rob at the foot of the throne. She gazed up at it, an
d now the dragonfly proceeded to amuse itself by doing high-speed aerobatics in and around the white figure.
"According to my calculations from Magnus's journal, and interfacing with my armour, this battle happened about two millennia ago. They won," gesturing around her, "the aliens were defeated, and then, nothing. No clues as to what happened to the warriors operating these suits, where they went, or where their bodies lie. As for the aliens, those verdammt things are mentioned only in one passage which I still can't translate properly. Maybe when Magnus gets here. Something about sport and blood."
"Bloodsport?"
"Maybe," she said. Ella hesitated, wondering if she should tell Rob, and at that moment, the image of Mick popped into her head. Bugger it. "When I was chasing the SS Colonel out over the Bay of Harmony, back when we were under siege, right when I shot him down, I had a vision." Rob looked at her. "I thought it was a hallucination at the time, but now I'm not so sure. Those last few seconds before I killed him, I could have sworn I was in a medieval tournament ground. Tall stands either side, horns blaring, all kinds of weird aliens and humans alike cheering, goading us on."
Rob took in her face, saw the fear and wonder, and let out a low whistle. "And the runes on top of the throne?" He pointed at the high, circular ring, lying on top of the high chair.
"That I could translate." She turned, and stared at the dead aliens. "Sluggish wolfs rarely get prey."
"Are we the prey?"
Ella sighed. "We better hope we're the hunters."
DAWN BROKE. The back streets of Fairholm were still, and mostly silent, the wind gently rustling the trees and shrubs that lined these back roads. Along the cobblestones, faint tremors began, startling birds who'd only just begun to sing their welcome to the new day.
The man collected the night soil from the back of the dwelling, and tipped its nitrogen rich contents into the large metal container on the back of his horse-drawn cart, and his dog's ears pricked up. Roughened hands felt the side of the barrel, felt the vibrations. Of thunderous hooves and paws slamming into stone.
Shit. Literally, shit. The night soil man jumped up onto the carriage bench, grabbed the reins, and urgently moved the carriage from the middle of the road to the hopeful safety of the shoulder, as in the distance the thunder grew ever louder.
The man had barely parked the carriage when the first beasts rounded the corner, and his dog barked in excitement, its tail thumping into the man's thigh with each wag. Then the Beasts of Fairholm were upon them, and in return, the beasts howled back.
Nine great German Shepherds, and a single enormous Wolfhound ran full pelt along the cobblestones, tails wagging furiously as they nipped and played with each other as the first of three warhorses came into view. Each horse standing at least thirteen hands tall, their flanks steaming in the cold morning air, the horses galloping in an arrow formation and at its point, the man could see a small child and its golden-brown tresses in the saddle, hands waving furiously at him in greeting. The man found himself waving back as the war party passed, the two soldiers guarding the child nodding at him and then the crescendo of noise and tremors peaked, and the night soil man was once again alone, just him and his dog, as the Beasts of Fairholm headed in the direction of the beach, the light golden.
AMELIA GRUDER PICKED up the piece of driftwood, moved her right foot back and raised her right arm, and with a single smooth motion, threw the stick as hard as she could. The ten dogs took off tumultuously, except for Skippy, the oldest German Shepherd of the pack and mother of the other eight, who stopped after a few footfalls. "Can't fool you!" said Amelia, who now pivoted on her left foot and threw the stick in the opposite direction, this time actually letting go of it.
Laurie's dog managed to reach the stick as it landed in the shallow surf, just as the others realised and immediately gave chase, resulting in a ten-way tug-of-war as the low tide crept slowly back in.
Amelia laughed, and she waved to her security detail standing up on the nearby dune only fifty feet away. Volfango Giugiaro, chief of her security, waved an olive arm back. She liked Volfango. He reminded her of Piers, back on Earth. Amelia decided to let the puppy dogs fight over the stick, and she pointed to a large clump of detritus washed up on the shore in the short distance. Volfango gave her the okay, and Amelia skipped over to it.
She really wished her mum could be here. Apart from that one instance where she appeared months ago, Amelia had not seen her since. It would be okay. She would see her again, that she knew. Her mum had promised, and generally, she kept her word.
Amelia stopped in front of the pile of seaweed, torn scraps of netting, and the general mass of green and slimy wreckage, when something moved and caught her eye. Amelia crouched down and lifted the piece of netting, expecting to find a crab or crayfish, even better, something to eat, but instead she found a black, spiky insect? crustacean? about as long as her foot. It looked injured. She stuck her head forward to examine it closer and saw that one of its front forelimbs had been ripped off, its blood glowing soft green, and even more peculiarly, it's one remaining forelimb ended with three fingers and an opposable thumb.
The thing looked half-scared to death. Without another thought, Amelia used a section of netting to wrap it carefully up, but still got stung by a spike or two, and with the dogs now running over to her, she stood, and smiled, sucking her thumb.
Chapter Five
BACKUP
THREE WARSHIPS REMAINED in the bay, as the Emperor's Lair turned into a conflagration illuminating the harbour in the night sky for miles around. Deep underground where the others had ended their stasis, two tiny blue spheres danced.
The Korellian awoke. Its myriad eyes blinked and took in its surroundings. The sentient life form accessed its memories on the solid-state drive, located deep within her skull, on the contingency something like this happened, as her last remnants of conscious thought faded, like a bubble preserved in ice, now exposed, melting.
It had.
The memories of ten millennia were gone, wiped.
For thousands upon thousands of years, this is what happened.
Her memory died. For the longest time, she had no idea what she was, save for the conviction of being a mindless, killing machine.
But not the backup. A last-ditch effort to meld alien technologies with biological reality, organic 1s and 0s, at the cellular level of bone.
It remembered now. Her name. Her history. Her brood.
She had been fighting the hated enemy, on the fourth planet of its home system, defending against the invaders – and it shuddered at the thought of those bipedal creatures, that life construct wasn't natural, or even stable, not even tripedal, the lowest of the low – defending her family home, and she had just killed an enemy walker tank when an overpowering blow knocked her out from behind.
The intensity of clicks and whistles grew as she stepped out of the stasis pod, and for the first time in over two millennial she was the mistress of her own fate.
Moments later the Korellian found she could not breathe. Those Hrothgar aliens and their blood games.
There was one more object in the room. A small blue sphere swirled around it before vanishing and the container covered in runes opened with a drawn-out hiss of pressurised, vacuum sealed air. Within, shelves folded out, and the Korellian bared her teeth; row upon row of razor-edged teeth.
Anyone who'd met a Korellian would not have mistook that expression of killer, hell-serrated jaws as anything but a smile, as she hobbled over on her six legs and picked up the oxygen tank with her forearms, and just as importantly, her hereditary assault rifle.
Saliva dripped down onto the floor as the alien, with its left hand, placed the oxygen tank onto its moulded carapace. Five thousand years of being used as the Hrothgar's fodder for their twisted games would end.
Every. Single. Bipedal. Creature. Would die.
Chapter Six
SHADES OF GREY
FLIGHT-SERGEANT ANDREW BLOOMSBURY paced up and down the fo
redeck of the Trinity, his mind whirling. The Captain and Beowulf surely wouldn't kill three hundred men in cold blood. Could they? Ever since they'd arrived on Elysium, Laurie had gone a little more peculiar with every passing month, and now with what happened in the battle for the Emperor's Lair, Andrew wasn't sure how to approach the Old Man.
Gutting the first couple of Inquisition scientists in his anger – well, at least he could understand that, with Andrew's love of all things great and small, and how they had suffered, tortured in unimaginable ways – but using captured prisoners as penal squads?
Andrew liked things to be clear, cut and dried. Always had. But the nature of war, as he'd soon found out flying bombing missions over Germany, as the Lancaster’s navigator, was never black or white, but a million shades of grey.
And now, here on Elysium, even more so. Those frantic few minutes where he'd exited the assault glider, and for the first time in his life, killed men by thrusting two feet of steel right through their guts, then a full day later, somehow survived the assault of aliens straight out of his primal nightmares, those images ran across his mind every time he closed his eyes.
"Keep that up mate," said a familiar voice, "and you're gonna wear straight through that deck." Thorfinn Hay, his longtime friend and flight-engineer, munched on a piece of barbecued tuna rib.
"Don't you ever stop eating?" said Andrew.
"Not if I can help it."
Andrew nodded. "One good thing about Elysium I suppose, the food supply is rather abundant." His hand found the end of his beard, and resumed twirling it around his index finger.
"Think any harder, your brain might explode. You can practically see the steam pouring out of your ears."
Andrew went to speak, but stopped. "I suppose you're right." He looked up at the twilight sky, and the full moon.