Lonely Castles

by S. A. Tholin

  "I shouldn't be here," she said, to nobody in particular, or to anybody who'd listen, and the words echoed throughout the core chamber, rippling the surface of the plasma moat.

  31.

  CASSIMER

  Pine trees rose like steeples from Hereward's soil. The horizon was a strip of fire and billowing smoke. In between volleys of distant gunfire, the rustle of parachutes was the only sound to disturb the night air. The moon wore a veil of clouds, but to the east, a light on top of a skeletal comms tower cast a red hue across the forest. The silhouettes of long-range air defence cannons flanked the tower.

  Cassimer steered his chute towards the darkness between tree tops. Branches scratched his canopy, tugging hard, but not enough to stop his descent. A soft landing, on a carpet of pine needles. A quick moment to appreciate earth under his feet once more, and then he shrugged off his parachute and drew his Morrigan.

  The designated drop zone was a kilometre in diameter. Comms were down and sensors scrambled, but the team's geo-painted rendezvous glowed between the trees. Less than two hundred metres to the west. A short distance, made longer by the forest. It was all shadow here, darkness separated by darker tree trunks. Roots grew from the ground in great snarls, and when he moved, pine needles hissed around his feet.

  Fifty metres from the rendezvous, he found Hopewell, busy cutting herself free from a tree. Her chute's rigging had tangled around her like a web. He stopped and flashed his Morrigan's targeting laser at her three times rapidly. She flashed back, acknowledging. He saw her relax, her cutting becoming more controlled now that she was no longer alone in the woods. By the time she abseiled down the tree, Rearcross and Tallinn – with a smear of tree sap across her visor – had rejoined Cassimer.

  Hostiles five hundred metres south-east. Unable to use comms, Rearcross displayed his message directly onto his visor. Nearly landed right on top of them. A unit of armoured vehicles camped by the side of a logging road.

  That'll be a bit of a problem, Hopewell texted.

  A problem for later. If things went their way, at any rate. Until his remaining five men were accounted for, Cassimer had to keep every possible outcome in mind, every what-if.

  They found Lucklaw at the rendezvous, along with Daneborg's new partner, Valletta.

  Kid landed right on the spot. The exact coordinates. Never seen anything like it. The visor text lit Valetta's tan face, highlighting a patch of lighter skin on his cheek. Hiding a facial tattoo, no doubt, and if Cassimer had noticed that earlier, he might have pulled another sniper from the company regardless of how well-matched the computer had seemed to think Valletta and Daneborg were. A sniper needed patience, clarity, and above all, good judgment. As far as Cassimer was concerned, a facial tattoo was an excellent indicator of the opposite.

  Lucklaw shrugged, faux-humble. I've been practicing.

  Parachuting? What for? Hopewell raised an eyebrow. This is like a once in a blue moon event for a banneret team, and thank the stars for that, to be honest.

  Just like to be prepared.

  And not just for parachuting. Since Cato, Lucklaw had completed the training required to be an actual comms specialist and not just the stand-in, as well as acquiring a shuttle pilot licence. Every day, he was working on some new skill or practicing an old one, always at the range or in the gym. A fire fuelled the lieutenant's newfound ambition, but that fire would also consume. Cassimer knew that better than anyone, and as they waited for the remaining three team members to arrive, he pulled Lucklaw aside.

  Status report, Lieutenant.

  Comms and sensors will remain down until we take the tower.

  Not the mission. You.

  Lucklaw hesitated, and Cassimer thought he was just going to say ok and leave it at that. But then Lucklaw opened his visor, his blue eyes blinking against the sudden rush of cold air.

  "Hopewell said Somerset was on Scathach a couple of weeks back. Apparently Rhys saw her, and I... I was just wondering if you did too, Commander."

  Yes. Cassimer changed his mind, deleted the text, and opened his visor instead. Hereward smelled of pine and mulched soil, the air fresh with the promise of rain. "I did."

  "Was she... did she seem okay? Did she say anything about me?"

  "No. Why do you ask?"

  "No reason. It's just that with the things we know... the things we saw on Cato... I feel like we're on thin ice, Commander, that'll crack under our feet any second. I'm trying to stop that from happening. I'm trying to... stars, I don't even know what sleep is anymore. Even if I had time for it, I don't know that I can shut my eyes. I'm always thinking, you know, always worrying, and I'm afraid that worrying about making a mistake is pointless. That maybe the mistake's already been made, and that nothing I do now can fix where I went wrong."

  No reason. Cassimer let the lie slide. Truth could only distract from the cold night air on his skin, the calculations in his mind and the focus required to complete the mission. Truth was irrelevant; Lucklaw's balance was not.

  "Maybe you can't fix it. But you're not alone, Lucklaw."

  "Thank you, Commander," he said, so very earnestly. "But sometimes I wish I was. At least then I'd only have myself to worry about."

  "I know the feeling," Cassimer said, and could've sworn that in the corner of his eye, something sleek and predatory moved between the trees. A wolf, or the ghost of one. "But it's a false feeling, rooted in fear. Much as I hate the posters, they're not wrong: solidarity is strength."

  Lucklaw's reply was drowned out by crashing thunder. The sky flashed white and gold as streaking artillery chased the shadows from the forest. Daneborg's tall shape was silhouetted against a tree, behind him, Wedlake and Quick, the team's second pair of gunners. Cassimer closed his visor, turning his gaze upwards. Somewhere high above, perhaps only scraping the atmosphere, a Primaterre ship was drawing fire from the long-range air defence cannons.

  The first diversion. He checked the time. Fifteen minutes until the second and forty-five until the third and final scheduled diversion. Ten kilometres of woodland lay between the team and their objective. Time to move out.

  * * *

  Sound travelled differently in the forest. A breath seemed loud, but the booming artillery was muted. The trees enforced a perpetual hush, too ancient for a temporary thing like war to spoil.

  It was in that silence, because of that silence, that Cassimer reached the crest of a ridge and found himself staring down at an entrenched unit of RebEarthers. A single point of smouldering light to his right, less than five metres away, betrayed the position of a RebEarth sentry.

  Nobody tell him smoking's bad for your health? I have a shot, Commander.

  Cassimer motioned for Valletta to stand down.

  Negative. We do not engage until we reach our objective.

  They stayed low, moving from cover to cover. Snippets of conversation drifted up from below, too muffled by the forest to be comprehensible. There were at least twenty-five contacts on Cassimer's thermal. Armed and armoured, but no vehicles.

  What are they doing in the middle of the woods when their city is under siege?

  Hopewell's question betrayed her inexperience. The gunner had seen plenty of action, but she hadn't been to war like Cassimer had. Skirmishes, yes, and petty territorial disputes, but never a purge. And that, he thought, running a gauntleted hand along the rough bark of a pine, was where this was heading. Hereward had been reduced to ash in the minds of too many people too many times for them to want to hold back now. The correct approach, but the trees here were old, the forest a living history. The people of Hereward might deserve what was coming, but the world itself did not.

  But perhaps Hereward would welcome the purge. It had been RebEarth territory for over half a century, but it hadn't been their home. Instead of cultivating fields and raising cattle, they had hewed a gauntlet out of its soil, turning nature into both sword and shield.

  Tunnels, he texted the team, so certain that he could practically feel the wormholes wind
ing under his feet. A wide network leading to the city. Perhaps farther.

  On the fifteen minute mark exactly, the second diversion proved him right. Artillery flashes lit the forest so bright that the phoenixes on RebEarth helmets glowed ghostly white. The trench was deep, sloping into the concrete-supported mouth of a tunnel. Bare light bulbs dotted a trail into the dark. More RebEarth men moved in there, loading supplies onto carts.

  Mark the location. We'll pass it on to Bastion. A sensible order, but he regretted it nonetheless. Come morning, the city would be a battlefield, but it was better to sweep streets and clear buildings in a strict, controlled pattern than to march through uncharted forest terrain and tunnels. Experience had taught him that, as well as what to expect. It'd be better to send in him than some poor fool who'd either die or learn new fear.

  But the tunnels were not his job tonight, and if the morning ever came, Hereward's sun would find him in the city, hunting the corruption nestled in its heart.

  * * *

  They reached their destination with ten minutes to spare. The forest around the comms tower had been clear-cut and fenced off by concertina wire, creating a three-kilometre-wide perimeter. Searchlights swept across the grounds, revealing tree stumps and muddy terrain.

  Wedlake and Quick took up position on the crest of a low ridge, behind a tangle-rooted windfall. Faint metallic sounds drifted down as they set up their mortars. If Cassimer's team failed to take the comms tower, they would endeavour to destroy it.

  Don't need sensors to see that's a minefield. Lucklaw crouched at the edge of the forest, surveying the open ground between them and the comms tower. A logging road ran across the clear-cutting, guarded by gates at both ends. The long-range air defence cannons were clustered around a bunker half a klick west of the comms tower. Casements surrounded the structures in all cardinal directions.

  Wedlake, Quick – head down the road a kilometre and place mines.

  The gunner duo acknowledged the order and disappeared into the night. Cassimer checked his HUD, impatient for the minutes to tick by, eager to move.

  Five minutes till go-time.

  * * *

  On the strike of midnight Bastion Standard Time, two Rampart ships moved in range of the air defence cannons. Rampart fired first, air-to-ground missiles blooming in the sky as the defence cannons opened fire and intercepted. The concertina wire rattled in the shockwave of an explosion. Clods of dirt and chipped tree bark plumed from the forest, clattering against the team's suits.

  Hopewell swore, wiping mud from her visor. Rampart needs to practice their aim. They do know we're down here, right?

  Close is good. Lucklaw used his thermal knife to quickly slice an opening in the fence. Alarms went off in the distance. They'll think the fence was hit.

  Incoming, Rearcross warned. The team shrank back, low against the ground, as a patrol vehicle barrelled along the inside perimeter. The driver was going too fast, and the guard on the back of the vehicle could only just about hang on. Brave to do their rounds even as fire rained down from orbit, but pointless if they weren't going to do it properly.

  As soon as the vehicle passed, the team moved in. Lucklaw first, his suit burning all its power to generate an EMP field, the rest of the team following in his footsteps.

  That truck looked pretty rusty. Tallinn looked around nervously. What if all their equipment is that old? What if they have old-fashioned mines with mechanical triggers?

  Then I guess we'd better hope you packed plenty of DNAno and duct tape, Hopewell replied. Tape my right arm back together first, if you would – can't shoot for shit with my left.

  Tallinn shot her a glare. What sort of person cracks jokes in the middle of a minefield?

  What sort of person doesn't?

  * * *

  They found cover in the shadow of a defence cannon. Rain steamed as it struck the cannon's hot barrel. A final barrage of artillery forced them to turn their suit audio off, but then the night was silent again, the sky clear.

  At least a dozen men patrolled the perimeter, and four guarded each gate. No doubt the casements were manned too. The comms tower was a tripod lattice-work of steel and cables. Taking it would be simple, but holding it less so. They'd be just as exposed as the RebEarth sniper on the tower's third level, who Cassimer was watching through the scope of his Hyrrokkin.

  We take the bunker. Breach, barricade, clear. Daneborg and Valletta, remain outside. Once all fire is focused on the bunker, take down the comms block.

  No offence, Lucklaw texted, shooting Valletta a look that the recon man had every right to take offence to, but shouldn't the comms specialist handle that?

  Don't need a fancy education to know how to cut power, kid, Valletta texted, white teeth flashing as he mouthed an insult.

  Only a knife. The text on Daneborg's visor was dim. It was the first thing Cassimer had heard out of the sniper since Velloa. The loss of Kiruna had left Daneborg quiet and sharp, focused on nothing but the job. A knife was all he needed, and a knife was all he was.

  * * *

  Lucklaw had just pried loose the bunker door's control panel when the door swung open on creaking hinges. A RebEarth man stepped outside, saw the Primaterre comms specialist and froze as though trying to decide whether he should draw his sidearm or shout for help. Rearcross grabbed him and crushed his skull against the bunker wall, but indecision was the man's true cause of death.

  Tallinn dragged the dead man inside. Lucklaw shut the door and began to secure it. Cassimer and the gunners headed deeper, their arrival heralded by stun grenades.

  A deep breath, and then Cassimer strode over the threshold into unknown territory. Movement to the left; he put a bullet in whatever it was. Another breath, letting his senses take in the surroundings while instinct steered his actions. A circular room, concrete walls painted red and black. One set of doors leading to a weapons control room where RebEarthers sat strapped in chairs. A staircase leading down, and a ladder ascending towards an open hatch periodically illuminated by searchlights. A row of consoles. A RebEarther there reached for his gun; Hopewell ended him, but his trigger finger twitched, sending a post mortem spray of bullets across the room. Concrete dust drizzled down.

  Movement to the right. A woman, at the bottom of the stairs. Tallinn shot her, kicked her down to the lower level and tossed in a grenade before shutting the door.

  Cassimer climbed the ladder, heaving himself out of the hatch. Three sentries guarded the roof. One younger than Lucklaw, completely unprepared, stumbling backwards. A single round from the Morrigan and he fell off the roof, splashing into mud.

  The second sentry raised his rifle to his shoulder and took the shot. Heavy calibre, bad enough to crack a reactive plate, but not enough to save the man.

  The third sentry emptied his clip into the air as Cassimer broke his wrist. Cassimer shoved him to the dirty rooftop floor, one heavy boot pressing into his sternum.

  "Bunker layout, now. How many exits?"

  "Fuck you, Primo."

  Cassimer bent and clamped a hand over the man's mouth. His boot heel ground into the man's ribcage. Three cracks and a long, smothered scream later, he let go of the man's mouth.

  "If we can seal off the lower levels, the men down there live to see tomorrow. If we can't, if you make us go down there, they die like you will. Slowly."

  The RebEarther gave him what he wanted. Alarms were going off inside the bunker and outside, and raised voices drifted in on the night wind. Hopewell and Rearcross cleared the weapons control room and secured the lower level secondary exit. Tallinn was at an air vent, adding an aerosol anaesthetic to the system; not mercy as much as it was convenience and risk management. When the time came for Cassimer's captive to die, he made it quick – the only mercy he could afford this filth.

  * * *

  "...do you read?"

  "Loud and clear." From his position on the roof, in cover behind an embrasure, Cassimer could see Daneborg moving up the comms tower. He could also see
the nearest guard house, windows shattered, walls spattered with blood, and the thermal contacts of fourteen RebEarthers spread across the compound's casements. His Hyrrokkin kept them at bay for the time being, but Lucklaw reported intense activity across RebEarth channels. They wouldn't let this location go without a fight. "Nice work. Wedlake, Quick – sitrep?"

  "Sensors are reporting traffic on the road. Armoured vehicles, en route to your position, ETA five minutes. We've also got eight trucks parked up to the west, looks like something's going on."

  "Want us to take them out, Commander?" Valletta asked.

  "Don't give away your position. The bunker needs to be their focus. Lucklaw, do we have off-world comms?"

  "I need to get the tower back online and into its systems first."

  "Well, don't be shy, Lieutenant," Valletta said. "Come on over. It's a short sprint, and the view's to die for."

  The rumbling of vehicles rose from the woods like a roar. Headlights flashed between tree trunks. A flock of night birds ascended, spiralling heralds of the oncoming reinforcements.

  Mines activated, Cassimer's HUD chirruped. A second later, fire rolled between the trees. Wreckage burst through branches and undergrowth, cutting furrows in wet dirt. The night birds were dark silhouettes against a burning backdrop. It was beautiful, and if he'd still been a cataphract, if he'd had his Helreginn armour and his dreams of purging this world, he would have gone out to meet the RebEarthers. He would have walked through the smouldering remains of their vanguard and ploughed through the rest.

  As the flames died down, the RebEarth unit once more advanced. Through the haze of smoke, the phoenix painted on the lead vehicle glowed a defiant red. Cassimer panned his rifle from its feathered head towards the thin strip of plated windscreen, and some of the cataphract thrill crackled through his veins.

  "Primaterre protects us all," he said across the team channel, and this time it felt almost as good as it once had. Because here he represented the Primaterre in all things, and here, where phoenixes had made their nest, every bullet spent would make the galaxy that little bit purer.