by S. A. Tholin
She pulled one of her wrists free, but his hand clamped around her throat. His nails dug into her skin. She tried to speak, tried to plead with him, but her voice had gone, her breathing constricted. And in his eyes, she saw something new. A spark, suggesting that while he hadn't wanted to hurt her before, now that he was, he liked it.
He eased off, and she breathed in hot air, coughed, and whispered his name, asked him please–
With a strange groan, he tightened his grip again, his thumb digging deep into her throat. Feeling something real, finally feeling something real, but it was all wrong.
His primer was still connected to hers. She reached for that tunnel of light between them and shoved through every bit of Cryo-CatchUp data she had, every movie and album and game and fact stored inside her primer; everything shunted across their connection and into his mind.
Elsinore stiffened and stumbled backwards as blood dripped from his nose and bubbles formed at the corners of his lips. It wouldn't last long, this little trick she'd learned from Duncan (oh Duncan, I am so sorry), but she was free. The Morrigan had gone down the stairs. Her best bet was to find it. Her best bet was to–
He caught up with her at the top of the stairs and threw her against the railing so hard that screws shot from its joints, but he was still dazed, and she wrenched loose, staggering towards the Morrigan on the fourth step.
Her fingers found the constellation of Libra, but Elsinore raised his fist and she saw the box cutter in his hand a second too late. It slashed her side, tearing through prismatic scales and skin, slicing across her ribcage. She barely even felt it, that was the funny thing, just felt strangely numb as a matter-of-fact voice in the back of her head went oh, that's my blood.
Elsinore backed up a step. He loomed over her as though trying to decide whether to apologize or to finish what he had started, sweaty with indecision.
But the matter-of-fact voice in Joy's mind had no such quandaries. It was training and it was experience and it was fear tempered in ice, and it screamed at her to fight. She kicked out at Elsinore's knee, grabbed his tool belt when he stumbled towards her and let his weight do the rest of the work, directing him headfirst down the stairs.
He landed with a crunch that would've made her feel sick if she had the time. She hurried over to him, pressing a hand to her abdomen, and rummaged through his tool belt until she found a roll of duct tape. Not a pretty bandage, but it would do to stop the bleeding until her basic med-augment kicked in. She used the remainder of the roll on Elsinore, taping his hands and feet together. She'd have liked to tape up his mouth too – instinct told her that if he regained consciousness now, he'd try to apologise, and she really didn't want to hear that now, or maybe ever – but his breathing was laboured and she didn't want to risk suffocating him.
She rolled him over into a recovery position, made sure his airways were clear and stuck a piece of tape across a bleeding gash on his forehead.
Then she sank to her knees by the part-installed signal blocker. The numbness had faded and she could feel all the real things now. But there were less than ninety minutes left until 'Waldorf' had to leave the Cascade, and she told herself that she simply didn't have time for pain or tears. The pain didn't listen – at all – but the tears obeyed.
She took a long, deep breath to steady herself, and then she spoke, across a private channel: "Lucklaw, do you read?"
A beat of silence, and another breath. Then:
"Aubrey, are you there?"
35.
CASSIMER
Darkness was their friend, and under the cover of night, they advanced deeper into the city. The bulk of the fighting was taking place to the east and the north, and elsewhere on the planet's surface, but that did not make the streets empty.
The ruins of a department store, its walls desecrated with phoenix graffiti, provided shelter from the dawn creeping over the horizon. It was less than half a kilometre from the hospital that was their destination. Daneborg and Valletta were making their way down the street, loping along a row of neighbouring apartments. The architecture here was old, with bay windows and wrought-iron balconies, and facades painted mint green or rose pink. A pleasant colony once, scarred by RebEarth's conquest. Though they'd taken the planet five decades previously, every city block still showed signs of shelling and devastation.
In the apartment building opposite, a few lights were on, offering views into curtain-less rooms with high ceilings and hardwood floors piled with luggage. The inhabitants were packing up to leave in a hurry. With any luck, the woman on the third floor, who was stuffing a teddy bear into an overflowing suitcase, would make it to the designated aid area.
On the fourth floor, rifles were being cleaned and assembled, crates of ammunition dragged from wardrobes. Cassimer watched those people through the scope of his Hyrrokkin, watched them finish and hurry down the stairs, watched them throw open the door and step outside where lichen spores floated in the hazy cones of streetlights. He watched, and wanted to take the shot, but had no choice but to let them disappear down an alley.
"Bloody spores are getting on my nerves." Hopewell sat on an overturned shelf, cleaning her visor. "It's not like it's just plant matter. This is part of a living, sentient entity, and I'm currently covered in it. How can the locals stand it?"
"If this is all demon, won't it sense us coming?" Rearcross asked. "Doesn't it know where we are?"
"It doesn't work like that," Hopewell said, though there was no conviction in her voice. She looked at Juneau for support. "Right, Major?"
"It's not all demon. The lichen grows slowly and, as far as we are aware, Cato is the only world where it's taken hold. The smog is largely factory fumes – likely from paint manufacturing, based on the chemical composition. The red colouring and the plant matter are deliberate additions."
"A ruse. See, Rearcross, they're just trying to scare us."
"She said not all demon. That doesn't mean no demon."
"Well, there are minute traces of the red lichen in the smog. Enough for the demon to sense or affect us?" Juneau shrugged, her light hazmat armour rustling softly. "Theoretically, no. But who knows?"
Not what Rearcross needed to hear, and Cassimer felt forced to intervene.
"It couldn't sense us on Cato. It had no idea who or where we were, because we were protected by our suits and habitat at all times."
"Or maybe it didn't sense you because it had no data by which to identify you. But it knows you by name now," Juneau said.
"If it knew we were here, RebEarth would be kicking down the door as we speak," Lucklaw said.
Hopewell nodded. "Exactly. Relax, Rearcross. It has no idea. As long as we're wearing our suits, we're basically furniture."
"Good." Rearcross's APF flared momentarily, burning off spores. A thin halo of smoke surrounded his hulking figure. "Still feel violated, though."
"Downright molested. Speaking of which, I had a chat with my sister before we landed on Hereward. Turns out the houseplant wasn't lying."
"Is she all right?"
"Yes, Commander." Hopewell managed a small smile. "Chastity's always all right; that's sort of her thing. Her new security detail makes her feel like a celebrity and being interrogated by Tower was the most exciting thing that's happened all summer, apparently. Of course, they didn't tell her they were Tower or that the guy she hooked up with was a demon vessel. They fed her some story about how he's wanted for a string of robberies. The funny thing is, she'd practically forgotten about the guy. You know how the demon said she'd called it twice? It had left its ball cap on the beach. She was trying to return it. And, she hadn't noticed the night before, but the cap had the Oryx team logo on it. That, I swear, is almost as bad as being a demon."
"Stars." Rearcross sighed. "You really shouldn't say things like that, but all right, yeah, this time, I agree."
"I'm an Oryx supporter," Juneau said, slightly annoyed.
"No offence, Major, but you're kind of proving my point."
"Hopewell."
"Apologies, Commander," Hopewell said, avoiding apologising to the major by segueing back onto the topic at hand. "Anyway, she told me the guy was completely forgettable. Can you imagine that? The houseplant is like ten thousand years old but it hasn't got the first clue when it comes to having fun. What a waste of ten thousand years."
"A little less fun and a bit more clarity, and perhaps your sister wouldn't have been so foolish as to let a demon defile her," Juneau said.
"Keep talking, Major. I mean it – it might be an interesting experiment for you to infiltrate an enemy stronghold protected by people who can't stand you. Will your odds of survival go up or down? I know what I'm putting my merits on."
"Don't know why you're even listening to her," Rearcross said. "Purity is to recognise and accept your feelings. If that feeling happens to be wanting to get laid, then acting on it with someone who feels the same is only rational. Sex is as pure as it is simple."
"How is it that you're suddenly making so much sense?" Hopewell smiled at her partner. "I completely agree."
"You would." Juneau shook her head. "Typical of people from tourism worlds. I don't know whether it's the transient nature of your communities, the exposure to foreign cultures – however brief – or just the sun getting to your heads, but purity is always so loosely defined; doctrine so lax. Purity is not acting on your every feeling, Lieutenant Rearcross. It is analysing them and choosing the rational path. You do not get laid. You select the optimal match and pursue an equal and satisfying arrangement."
"Yeah," Hopewell said, laughing. "And how's that working out for you? I'm guessing your optimal match barely knows you exist. In fact, I'm guessing Mr Match could be sitting in this very room, maybe even looking right at you, and all he'd see is – what was it I said? – basically furniture."
"Lieutenant," Juneau hissed, her face flushed with heat. Her lightly armoured suit was far from as advanced or comfortable as the team's armour, and the Oriel officer's journey into the city had no doubt been a testing experience. Cassimer did empathise. He had, however, had enough of the chatter.
"Quiet."
Not that silence could be found on Hereward anymore. Gunfire to the east, heavier artillery to the north, and the drone of gunships crossing the city. Shouting, weeping, crumbling ruins. All the noise of war, and all the familiarity. The banneret company channel was a stream of activity on his HUD, accompanied by whatever Bastion and Rampart channels were open to him. Down here, he was a piece of a larger puzzle, and while he could never hope to see the whole picture, he endeavoured to at least see the shape of things.
A unit of vanguard men had taken a high-rise offering a view of the compound where Justin Markham was believed to be holed up. Good for the Primaterre, and good for Cassimer's team, because the vanguard men would be attracting hostiles like a beacon.
In the street, Daneborg crouched at the edge of a canal, dropping low as a column of RebEarth vehicles came tearing past. Headlights made the water sparkle darkly, a half-submerged bicycle casting a strange shadow on the canal's tiled wall.
Then the vehicles were gone, thundering down a highway that would see them pass through a gauntlet of Primaterre sniper fire. Daneborg was on the move again, slipping into a house where Valletta waited. Their heavy boots were soundless on broken glass and creaking wood. Cobwebs clung to Daneborg's visor, dust drizzling from the ceiling. The windows were not glass, but old-fashioned vid-displays that once would have shown whatever view the inhabitants preferred. A single phoenix, sloppily spray-painted on a wall, was spattered with blood.
"Valletta, give me a better view of that." Tallinn sat up, yawning from a nap, the corner of her eye twitching as stims fizzed through her system.
Valletta scratched blood from the wall with his finger. No lightweave gauntlets for him, but his sensors were good enough to tell Tallinn what she wanted to know.
"Decades-old. Nothing we need to worry about."
"Odd, though." Valletta swept his rifle light across the room. More blood. A pile of rag-covered bones in a corner. Turned-over furniture and smashed paintings. "Was a nice building once. Central, right next door to the hospital. You'd think RebEarth would've repurposed it, not leave it to rot."
"They don't want to live with the ghosts of enemies." Rearcross kept his voice to a whisper, glancing towards the shadows. "You saw what they did to the dead on Velloa, stripping them and dumping them in the sewers. It doesn't have to be water – the ground will do as well – but that's the RebEarth burial ritual. It's meant to help the dead find their way home to Earth, the Mother Spirit. Of course, all it does is leave their own spirits open to the corruption. Better to burn the dead like we do. Fire cleanses. And..." He hesitated, looking around the room. "My old company, they promised me something. I know it may not be a promise possible to keep, but if you all don't mind... I'd like to make the same request of you."
"Got your back whatever it is," Hopewell said.
"If I'm killed, don't let RebEarth take my body. Recover it, slag it, 'nade it – whatever works. Because I've seen what they do to the bodies of their enemies, and I don't want that. Sometimes, to those they truly hated, they will do things so evil that they consider the scene of the death cursed. They won't go back. Won't raze it, either, for fear of letting something loose. They just quarantine the area. So, yeah... that's why that building's been left the way it is. Something bad happened in there. Something unforgivable."
* * *
Daneborg climbed a rooftop, and through his eyes, they saw the hospital. A fence surrounded it, reinforced with manned watchtowers at every corner and gate, automated turrets and searchlights making the parking lot look more like a prison courtyard. Outside the fence, the streets were crowded. The mob was nervous, jittery, loud, in flux as people tried to break away but found themselves walking right back to their spot. Many wore hospital gowns; some too sickly or injured to stand.
"Their minds have been corrupted by the red demon. Fascinating." Juneau's eyes turned silver as she tapped her tablet. "Can we get a better look? Perhaps a subject."
"Oh, we'll get up close and personal soon enough," Hopewell said.
"Inadvisable." Daneborg panned his rifle up and down the street. The crowd stretched on, snaking around the hospital. "We can't cut through that. Request air strike?"
"We're in range of two active air defence sites. Rampart will be of no help until they're down," Cassimer said. Other banneret commanders were working to solve that problem, but it'd take a day or two. "Valletta, how are the sewers?"
"Wet, dirty and empty. Found a manhole inside the hospital courtyard. It's guarded, but looks like our best bet. We can–"
The team channel screeched with static. It was an electronic scream, the death of a leviathan, and Cassimer knew it all too well. Comms were down, text unavailable, his head buzzing with pain.
"Ship's coming down," he called out over the din. "Take cover."
Ten kilometres away, entire neighbourhoods were swallowed by a bubble of fire. Tallinn took a step towards the windows, and he grabbed her by the shoulder, shoving her to the floor, because–
–because the bubble surged outwards in a tempest of fire and smoke and debris that had been buildings less than a second ago. Half a city block was scattered burning into the woods beyond. A cloud of dust swept down streets, blowing through windows as a shockwave chased it. The sudden force broke every pane of glass in the department store. Shelves turned to tinder against the walls, the phoenix murals dripping with melting paint. Hopewell sparked with lightning as shrapnel evaporated against her armour.
And then there was a moment of silence, for the first time since the team had entered the city.
"Downstairs, now." Cassimer pulled Tallinn upright. "Basement. It's not over yet."
"What is it?" the medic asked, wide-eyed.
"Rampart destroyer coming down in pieces."
"But they're in space," Hopewell protested, taking point down the stairs. A few of
her reactive plates were still smouldering. "Even if they explode, they're not supposed to rain down on us."
"Not supposed to. It happens." When an aggressive captain was outwitted by a cunning enemy, it was a bad time to be a ground trooper. Cassimer waited for the team to file past, and then he shut the basement door. "Hunker down. Breathe. Wait."
* * *
When the sky was no longer a conflagration, the team took to the streets. Requests for assistance flashed on Cassimer's HUD. The vanguard men in the high-rise had been forced to evacuate when a chunk of ship struck the building. The surrounding RebEarth forces hadn't wasted any time. Another vanguard detachment responded to the calls for backup, but they arrived far too late. All they could do was slag the dead and retreat.
One request came from a Rampart escape pod. Several had landed in the city and the surrounding forest, but this particular one was less than a kilometre away. Far from any other Primaterre forces, and in the opposite direction of Cassimer's own objective. A choice had to be made, but the choice was illusion. In reality, there was only one course of action.
"Valletta, pull back to Daneborg's position. Scout a route for us from the west. We'll be there as soon as we've secured the Rampart men."
He let his gunners take point, kicking down doors and brute-forcing a path through buildings and alleys. The sound of gunfire echoed between phoenix-painted walls. The open Primaterre channel picked up proximity chatter from the Rampart men. Pinned down, taking fire, alive – but not for long.
The escape pod had punched straight through an office building and careened down a street, leaving a scorched canyon in its wake. A public announcement post bent awkwardly over it, its speakers throwing sparks. The pod's hull was riddled with bullet holes, the street littered with casings. A flutter of paper fragments rained down from the ruined offices.
Some of the Rampart men had died there. Their bodies hung from lamp posts and traffic lights, electric cabling cinched tight about their necks. Coagulating blood pooled below them, thick droplets dripping from their ankles where their feet had been hacked off.
