by Aeryn Leigh
Amelia stuck up a hand, all evidence of the wound gone. Laurie noticed her hand showed no white spot, unlike every single other who'd been punctured by the fuzzy, alien spikes then healed. "There's a filament rope ladder stowed on board that will drop all the way down Laurie," she said, head high. "It's designed to take the weight of warrior-augmented armour, so it should hold their weight, no worries mate." She beamed right at Laurie, proud she was picking up some Australian slang.
"Christ," said Laurie, but with faint suggestion of a wry smile. He bent over, and looked her point blank. "You gave it your word?"
"I did."
First marines, now bloody aliens. At this rate they'd be shoving roses into gun barrels next. He glanced over at the two women, and Marietta tipped her head at him. Ella still appeared to be in a state of shock. Both of them rested against the knee joint touching the ground, the same very powered suit that saved all their arses back the stronghold.
"All right sunshine, let's go lower this ladder, shall we? And I don't suppose mate that this thing has a loudspeaker by any chance?"
Laurie immediately regretted asking the question. By the time it took to deploy the rope barrel-ladder, the ladder itself a wondrous contraption, being able to lift the thin, flexible, metal footholds up like some crazy vertical escalator, three horses, one child, spiky alien, and the group of adult men watched the drum unspool from the port side of the gunship, right over the edge.
Laurie cleared his throat. "Are you sure this going to work Amelia?"
"Yup!" She held up the piece of black polished metal, the width and shape of an almond. "Just hold it up and put the tip in your ear canal, it will do the rest."
In for a penny, in for a pound, thought Laurie. Fast reaching the point being surprised by anything much more. He jammed the end of the almond in his ear. The others saw the metal expand, forming and flowing around Laurie's ear, a small tendril snaking its way alongside his skull, before borrowing straight into the side of his skull causing them all to step back in alarm. Laurie didn't seem to notice. In fact, he didn't look perturbed at all. His expression had a wild, delirious vista.
Amelia bounced up and down, quite happy to give the rest of them the graphic rundown from her new knowledge. "That's just a side effect of the analgesic," she said. "The neural interface is borrowing itself into the top of his spinal column and wetworking with the hind areas of his brain." She paused. "Not sure how I know that," she said, face crinkling, "but I just do. I gave him one of the four command nets," she said. On the landing strip, they could all hear the faint sounds of bones being burrowed through and into. They automatically cringed. "He likes giving orders a lot, so I didn't think be any harm? He wanted to use the gunship's loudhailer, and now you can!"
A small amount of drool ran out the edge of Laurie's mouth. To all of them, Laurie looked more serene than the entire time they known him. The drilling and slurping noises ended.
"Now," said Amelia, "the end bit might sting a little."
Laurie barely registered her words before his brain screamed in a trillion flares of electric lights, as synapses discharged new electrical current to their now gene-modified receptors.
Laurie shuddered for a bit.
And a little bit more.
"ARE YOU OKAY LAURIE?" said Rob. Inside Laurie's long abused and battered mind, war was being fought, as old, stubborn, mulish ways of thinking ran headfirst into creative logic solving that hadn't been used since he was a child trying to wag school.
Three-dimensional schematics of weapons, ships, of planets and orbital stations and a plethora of other stuff he could not yet recognise winked past in their dozens per millisecond in his consciousness. He felt the panic and fear start to rise, as the Nordic runic language and scripts made no sense, but insisting he interact.
Those bloody Vikings, but even that thought was muted, a mere ghost of its former self. He was drowning and could not breathe. The panic increased. He tried to open his mouth but couldn't remember how to. What his mouth was. A universe of galaxies spun around him.
It all went black.
He still couldn't breathe. But now he witnessed every violent act he'd ever created, ever performed, it inflicted, through his own eyes. Laurie watched a smaller version of himself, around the age of seven, pouring a few precious lumps of brown sugar onto the ground outside of the family house, by the back veranda, in the scorching Australian sun, and as the inch-long bull ants descended upon the feast, begin setting them on fire one by one with a huge magnifying glass, focusing the concentrated beam of light upon their bodies, hearing them pop, snap and crunch, the burning whiff of smoke.
His very first schoolyard fight, coming to the aid of another boy, being lifted off by the teacher, the bully covered in pulpy, red globules of his own blood, Laurie screaming at them to let him go, so that he could keep kicking the ever-loving shit out of him.
And then a very long break. Fourteen going on fifteen, onboard a troop ship bound for Egypt, towards the Great War, caving in the face of a man who decided to steal from his pack. And then from there, every act of violence until this very single day.
The images stopped. Stillness.
He stood on a vast alien battlefield, littered with broken and destroyed war machines he could not recognise, aliens and creatures he could not recognise, humans he could not recognise, but the field of slaughter? That he recognised. Battle flags swung limply in the air, flying creatures picked over the fallen, as Death stalked the slain and the mortally-wounded.
He looked down to his left, suddenly aware of an enormous shadow, and then looked up, and kept on tilting his head up, to the top of the great shaggy wolf towering over him. The grey wolf sat on its haunches, and twisted its elephant-sized head down at Laurie. The pale-yellow, slotted-black eyes turned Laurie's blood into ice.
"This is who you are," it said inside his mind, with a voice like thunder.
"You look a lot like Skippy."
The giant wolf turned its attention back to some point over the far horizon. "Sometimes yes and sometimes no. I use your companion as an avatar when necessary. Whisper things to her. Where are we? What is this place? What was, and what will be?"
The impulse to give a sarcastic reply started to form, yet it evaporated just as quickly. Right.
"We shall not see each other again," said the giant wolf. "On this mortal plane at least. But remember Berserker, remember who you are. What you are. The dead you reap, want their answer."
Laurie awoke, lying flat on the landing pad, Skippy's rough tongue licking the side of his face. "How long was I out?"
"Just a couple of seconds," said Volfango. "Seems to be the day for fainting." At least Amelia had the decency to look slightly guilty.
"You," he said. That's it, he thought, I am going mad. "Amelia. Loudspeaker, now."
"Shush," said Amelia. "All you have to do is ask your mind," tapping the side of her head, before putting both hands on her hips, the alien between her feet.
Laurie shuffled over to the edge, to where the fleet lay below, and with fireworks popping off in his mind, shouted.
Chapter Twenty-Five
SPANISH FORT
THE SERPENTINE PATH led up from the beach, and the Hanomag's treads fought for traction in the soft sand, Haplo gunning the motor as fast as he dared. Panzergrenadiers held onto every available surface and those that couldn't surfed behind on snow skis, surplus from the Russian winter offensive but quite useful. The infantry being towed behind reeled themselves in and leaned harder into the corner, as the halftrack managed the hairpin bends, only to release the slack on each straight. Wolfgang stood next to Haplo, lifting the binoculars up and down, his Stg 44 assault rifle slung over his left shoulder.
If the enemy had laid mines, well it was too late to worry about that now. But the sheer number of footprints and those weird spike holes essayed his fears as now here and there, small pools of copper stained the off-white sand. Blood.
As the halftrack jolted up and down, al
l of Wolfgang's senses alive, the small pit of dread in his lower stomach grew larger.
Death was on the air.
The sickening, cloying smell of men heaved evacuating their bowels in fear and terror.
They'd almost reached the top of the winding path, another tight corner and one long straight and they would be at the top. The mist swirled around, and Wolfgang stole a glimpse to his left. On the beach and mere half-mile away, the troop ships were already shrouded in grey.
The Hanomag's treads stopped, as they began the final turn, and the halftrack slewed around to the right, the front end bouncing just a little, Wolfgang nodded to Sergeant Bismarck.
Showtime. Wolfgang unslung his assault rifle, and for the fifteenth time that day inspected the magazine, before slamming it back in. Drag marks in the bushes here and there. Shrubs bent as if by something heavy pressing upon them. Scatter trails of blood, but no bodies.
Behind them, the panzergrenadiers on foot were streaming up the winding path, so reminiscent of the foothills of Italy. Panzer IVs dangled over the surf, the crane still beholden to the electrical grid one’s plaguing. It didn't matter. His gut told him was a grounding issue, for the moment the halftrack's treads touched, kissed sand, earth, its stuttering engine became strong.
Whatever lay ahead, Wolfgang and the Seventh were not going down without a fight. If the gunpowder failed, that's what bayonets were for. The finest soldiers the German army could offer broached flat land.
Carnage. Wanton destruction. Burnt out buildings littered the scene in front of them. Whatever hit this place had done so a couple of days earlier, concluded Wolfgang, from the tiny, spent slivers of smoke rising from the blackened, charcoal frame of buildings.
The main road ahead led inland. From this road, two cobblestone paths split left and right, circling back to what Wolfgang assumed were the cannon forts either side of the landing coves.
He lifted his binoculars and scan in a 270° arc, Sergeant Bismarck giving soldiers commands whilst their commander assessed the tactical situation. A and B companies formed a defensive perimeter at the beachhead entrance. MG 34s sprung into place, the men on skis removed them quickly, efficiently, forming into squads behind the Hanomag.
Wolfgang twisted his torso. Things were starting to get a little vexing, and if there was one thing Wolfgang despised, was mysteries. The walls, the material that they'd been whitewashed in, the very architecture screamed Spanish, but old Spanish. He could not see a single telegraph pole, or anything remotely modern. In the wrecked building directly ahead, some kind of cannon had been mounted on its roof, yet pulled off, twisting the gun support like crazy.
Wolfgang suspicions proved right. The Panzer IV hit ground, and it stuttering motor quietened into a steady roar. Only when the first tank joined them at the top of the beach, did Wolfgang do his own mental coin toss. Heads left, tails right. He reached into his top pocket, and pulled out the small French franc, the one souvenir from 1939, and flicked it with his thumb, catching it with his palm. Heads it was.
He held his left arm perpendicular out. Haplo spun the halftrack, and with the Panzer IV following, and three companies of panzergrenadiers, they moved towards the clouded, obscure fort, the suspense suffocating.
Chapter Twenty-Six
WELCOME TO THE INSANITY
MICK DAMN near shit himself mid-conversation with Griffin when the sonic blast pummelled the Viking longships.
"Test, test, one, two, three, is this thing even on?" All the boats wobbled ever so as Laurie's shouting voice exploded overhead, causing ripples on the ocean's surface. The reverberations finished.
Mick shook his head. "Jesus what the –"
The oral cacophony restarted. "Where's the bloody hell volume for this thing? Amelia get over here!"
Mick gripped the side rail, one hand over his chest. "That fucking dinosaur," he spluttered.
"He's a tough bastard," said Griffin, watching the dull grey barrel fall towards them.
Laurie spoke, but this time, not causing small ripples upon the ocean surface. "Beowulf, Griffin, Mick, get on over to the ladder and we'll haul you up. Yeah, Magnus and Andrew should as well." Silence. "Ah, bugger it. Get the rest of the commando squad up too. And you on the Trinity, Mr No Name, you better get here as well. There's someone you gotta meet."
A short, brief battle formed upon all the Viking ships, as each man and woman considered themselves part of the quote unquote commando team. It ended with the same way most Viking voluntary participation was decided.
Mick and the others from Earth ducked out of the way as fists, flat backs of swords and thumb-wrestling warfare broke out. Beowulf stood at the bow of Hellsbaene, grinning like a proud father. When those defeated were fished back out of the ocean, or retrieved from being stuck inside a water barrel, the Viking longships nudged their way parallel to the ten-foot wide rope ladder, the contraption somehow maintaining a perfect distance with every swell of the wave underneath, so that very bottom rung never touched water.
The metallic strands were warm to the touch, noticed Griffin, as he started climbing up it, trying to give room to those yet to pile on. Griffin stopped thirty feet above the water, and watched the Inquisition Sergeant-Major execute a perfect swan dive off the galleon, surfacing a dozen or so yards towards the ladder, giving a professional display of breaststroke.
"Show off," said Mick, next to Griffin, panting from the climb, and utterly soaking wet, having tripped over the gunwale. Beowulf was the last to jump onto the ladder, gave a short blast from his war horn.
"Hang on tight," boomed Laurie. The sound of him muttering. "How do I get this thing to pull up?"
Griffin's arm along with all the others was almost ripped from its socket as the ladder began spooling back in, eyes watering from the sheer velocity of their ascent.
"Jesus Christ, normal speed, not emergency rescue!" The rope went slack, those hanging onto the ladder experiencing a moment of zero gravity as their momentum carried them past the physical constraints of the ladder, arcing straight up in a parabola before replaced by the sheer terror of free-falling straight back down towards the ocean six-hundred feet below.
Another voice. "Gently, Laurie, gently," said the incredulous, unmistakable sound of Amelia, "not that fast doofus. Here this is how you do it." The party was brought to a halt, the ladder taking in ever-increasing load, until they eased to a stop, fifty feet above the ocean water.
Mick threw up his lunch.
"Think of it like a puppy," said Amelia above them. "Gently, gently."
More muttering. "Thanks sunshine, I've got it now." The ladder began ascending, this time much smoother, and it wasn't long before they reached the incredible Valkyrie gunship. The angular gunship pulled them over the edge, a small cushion of energy preventing fingers and limbs being mashed between the ladder and the stone edge. Laurie stepped forward, and greeted them. "Welcome to the insanity," he said.
A short while later, after delegating Mick and Beowulf to explain the Inquisition battalion to a stone-faced Marietta, Laurie sat on the edge of the landing ramp, and did his best to glare at Amelia, and Skippy placed her head on his knee almost in sympathy. He tried once more to remove the Nordic interface. "What do you mean it is permanent?" He attempted to get a thumb-nail under the edge of the metal behind his ear, where it met the skin. He could not get a purchase on it.
"The database encyclopaedia says it can't be removed. How was I supposed to know that? You wanted to speak to them down there, so I was merely doing what you asked." Amelia's face was all innocence.
Laurie was struck by the instant memory of being read 1,001 Arabian Nights to him as a kid. Sure, you can ask Genie for a wish, but you better bloody damn well plan out the consequences. Your wish is my command.
He hadn't thought things through. Again. He muttered.
His muttering cannoned off the rock face.
Shi –
Chapter Twenty-Seven
MORE MYSTERIES
THE ANTIQUATE
D BUILDINGS SEEMED OMINOUS, skeletons looming out of the fog. The off-white sand, squeaking under boots and treads, turned into cobblestones, the Panzer IV rumbled along at walking pace, the Major huddled behind it's turret, the butt of the assault rifle in the crock of his shoulder, his other hand holding binoculars.
The road seemed to run for another 150 yards before it swung left, back to the stone fort overlooking the disembarkation.
Silence.
Spain had long fallen to the Allies. But the snake of doubt coiled around his heart, constricting. He tried to banish the thought of those two suns overhead from his mind. He had a duty to his men and by the Teutonic Gotts he was going to do it. Later, he thought. First priority is to establish a secure foothold. Whitewashed villas, sturdy buildings with thick walls, lay gutted. The insides were torched with fire, all that remained was stone foundations, blackened, charred bits of wooden frames here and there.
He held up his left and curled an index finger. The half-track swung out, accelerating until it staggered alongside and to the rear, just overlapping the tank in frontal area, providing maximum cover for the infantry. Three panzergrenadier companies took cover behind the two, the growling motors, the crunch of treads on stones and gravel, and the odd squeaks and rustling of the infantry’s movement the only things to be heard.
They reached the bend.
The procession halted.
The battlement walls, twenty-feet high, stretched out on either side. The massive, iron portcullis, laid smashed and broken, flat on the ground. On their right, as far as visibility would allow, shattered buildings stretched into the fog. He ordered the Panzer to rotate 180 degrees, but keep its main gun facing the gate.
C Company covered the Panzer, and the Major jumped down and climbed up the side of the half-track, and merely looked at Haplo, who nudged the Hanomag forward, straight for the open gate.
He turned his head back, and took the eyes of each of the men in turn, leaving the gunner of the quad 20mm to last. "Easy," he said. Perspiration ran down the side of the corporal’s face, but determination shone in his countenance. As did them all.