“Why don’t we just blow the obelisks into dust from the Streamline?” Billy asked.
Jason shook his head. “Nope, that won’t work. Gravity would drop the mesh back down on top of the compound, and we’d be no better off.”
Jason had a thought but quickly dismissed it … too crazy … too dangerous. The problem was, nothing else was coming to mind. He turned his attention to Traveler. After all he’d gone through over the last year, he hated putting him in harm’s way again.
Traveler raised his hammer and did that thing Jason had come to recognize as a smile. Jason closed his eyes and let out a long breath. When he opened them again he spoke aloud: “Traveler, you’re not afraid of heights, are you?”
* * *
The first part of the plan would be tricky, over-the-top dangerous. Jason would have to take Ricket’s word on the capabilities of the Streamline’s weaponry. He was also making an assumption that the mesh tent would be as much a disruptive shield to weapons fired from beneath it as it was from those fired above it. He contacted Grimes and went over the plan. She was immediately on board with it with one caveat: Could she make the precision shots Jason was asking for from her current, high-orbit, location? There was no way Jason was going to put the Streamline, their only ticket home, in any more jeopardy than necessary. They’d have to move forward and hope Grimes could make the necessary shots.
“Traveler, you ready? You know what to do?”
“I am ready. I … will need help with the phase-shift coordinates.”
“Any of us would. Since we’re putting you on top of that mesh surface, Grimes will be calculating them for you. Check your HUD.”
Jason heard Traveler’s snort beneath his helmet, which somehow compensated for the hot bursts of steamy snot rhino-warriors often expelled throughout their day.
“You just have to keep the mesh continually rolled back as Grimes takes out the obelisks, one by one.”
“I understand. I will not let the mesh fall onto the compound.”
“Good. Now the Craing aren’t going to be sitting around, their thumbs up their ass, while all this is going on. Jackson and Thomason will be on Billy’s team. Rizzo and Gomez will be on mine. Ricket and Dira will phase-shift wherever they are needed. I want to be perfectly clear here … we are not going to defeat the battle droids by going head-to-head against them.”
Rizzo looked confused. “So how do we … destroy them?”
“We don’t, Grimes does. More specifically, Grimes and the Streamline. Once Traveler has peeled the overhead mesh tent back, Grimes can fire right into the compound and destroy the battle droids with her big plasma gun. That, or we’ll provide the coordinates for her.”
“I like it,” Jackson said. “One problem—at least half the droids are deep underground, protecting the emperor and the high priests. There’s no way the Streamline’s plasma fire can penetrate down to that depth.”
“That’s right,” Jason replied. “And that’s where we’ll need to be smart, fast, and agile. Our job will be simple … antagonize and infuriate the droids however possible, to the point they pursue us—chase us up to the higher levels. Then Grimes takes them out: like shooting ducks on a lake.”
Dira rolled her eyes at Jason’s analogy. She raised a hand.
“You don’t have to raise your hand. What’s on your mind, Dira?”
“So, let’s say we do all that. Take down the droids. What’s the plan for the emperor and the high priests?”
“You don’t have to be a part of that. War is ugly. But they are harbingers of mass killings … destruction throughout the universe—”
“You don’t understand. I want to be there. If those monsters are going to die … today … I’m going to be there too!”
* * *
Ot-Mul sat and listened to the old fart drone on and on about only God knew what. Mor-Crik was speaking Kalpin, an ancient Terplin dialect that he didn’t understand, and suspected half the priests sitting there didn’t either. How old was the reigning high priest overlord? Hunched over and supported by a walking stick, he had to be well over one hundred years, if he was a day.
Ot-Mul was now eighteen hours into the ceremony and seriously wondered if he could last the remaining six—that is, if the proceedings didn’t run over, and they always did. That sober realization had only come to him within the last few minutes. He hated this shit. The pomp and circumstance: the religious mumbo-jumbo. What am I doing here? He was a decorated and admired fleet commander. Was he to spend the rest of his life sitting in council meetings, dressed up in frilly robes? He didn’t want to think about the ridiculous headdress he’d be required to wear.
His attention was pulled back to the speaker. He was smiling and pointing the end of his walking stick in Ot-Mul’s direction. Applause filled the five hundred seat chamber of the Grand Sacellum. Soft illumination glowed from an immense translucent orb, carved from some kind of stone or mineral which hung from high above the proceedings. Ot-Mul stood and bowed—first, to the high priest overlord at the podium, and then to those on both his left and right within the chamber. The old coot continued on, but he’d changed gears, delving now into a familiar theme of ensuring the continued, enduring, Craing legacy. Ot-Mul sat up a bit straighter when he heard the words transformation of eternity. So there it was. He was to basically hand over his Crainganity to become … what … some freak of nature? Immortality, sure, but at what price?
High Priest Overlord Mor-Crik made his way back to the raised dais, where he would once again join Ot-Mul, sitting to his right. All eyes turned to the empty podium. Well, what’s next? Ot-Mul thought. Can we move this along?
Ot-Mul watched as the next speaker finally made his way to the podium. Wearing the uniform of a decorated fleet commander, a royal-blue medallion hanging around his neck, Ot-Mul knew exactly who the officer was: Vigil-Kin—his replacement-to-be as supreme Craing fleet commander. Vigil-Kin shared the same bloodline as Ot-Mul, evident by the small tuft of black hair at the top of his head.
Ot-Mul smiled as the officer began to speak. Inside, though, he seethed, hating his arrogant distant cousin. Especially now, for his cousin would soon hold the one position, Ot-Mul realized, he wanted to keep for himself. Was it too late? Was it even possible to halt such proceedings? He did not want to be emperor … he knew that now. Ot-Mul looked to his right and saw one of the Caldurian battle droids standing guard. As if reading Ot-Mul’s thoughts, it turned in his direction. Its shimmering, constantly spinning, blades of armor gave the droid an almost ethereal presence within the hallowed chamber. He could only blame himself—he’d produced the menacing droids on the Ion Station and then had them stockpiled on the surface of Terplin. He recognized the irony in that: his ultimate means of protection were also his captors.
Two more battle droids entered and held positions in the back two corners of the chamber. It was at that moment that Ot-Mul had an epiphany. He was not the first acting-emperor to have second thoughts, but the proper time to change his mind had long gone … if he’d ever even had that option.
The sound of a heavy stone moving—sliding over another—brought the proceedings to a hush. Ot-Mul hadn’t paid notice to it earlier, but he now saw that the front wall of the chamber, flat and unremarkable as it was, was slowly descending into the floor. At some point, a rhythmic chanting had begun. All faces were now turned toward Ot-Mul. The wall descended the final few feet, exposing an entirely hidden room behind it. At the room’s center was a beautiful, ornately carved, raised pedestal. The chanting got louder as a group of priests entered the once-hidden chamber, pushing forward various types of technical and medical equipment within close proximity of the raised pedestal.
It was time: time for the transformation of eternity.
Chapter 48
Nan, momentarily paralyzed, watched in horror. They didn’t all fall at once. But three did. One man and two women, all naked, they weathered the fall from twenty feet above, dropping into low crouches with no apparent injur
ies. Then they moved with lightning speed.
Mollie let out a scream and Nan stifled her own. There was something familiar about the way they moved. They didn’t so much walk as they did skitter, moving from side to side. And then, in the split second she had time to think, she had it … they move like molt weevils.
The three beings darted and circled about them, coming in and out of the darkness. Their faces were blank—expressionless. Nan pushed Mollie behind her and together they backed up close to the blast door. Gus had his gun raised and was tracking whichever one came in closest.
“Get away from us!” he yelled. The authority in his deep voice seemed to have an effect on them.
One of the women started to make a sound. It was guttural and nonsensical, as if she was trying to talk but didn’t know how; maybe she’s mimicking Gus, Nan thought.
Perhaps they aren’t dangerous? Nan hoped. Then Gus took a wild slap in the face from the man. He’d struck him in an awkward, almost caveman-like, hitting motion. Stunned, Gus looked humiliated and shot the attacker.
Mollie shrieked as the dead man fell lifeless onto the concrete road several feet away. One by one more bodies fell down from above, but the gunshot did keep the attackers back for a minute.
“We have to do something, Gus.”
“I thought I just did,” he answered back.
More bodies fell from above.
“You don’t have enough ammunition to kill them all.” Nan began looking left and right, seeing them approach.
“I have five more magazines and I have this.” He took out a second gun, one that looked identical to the first. “It’s a Glock 19, same as mine. Take it.” Without taking his eyes off the attackers, Gus passed his second gun back to Nan with the two magazines. “You have three mags, holding fifteen rounds each; plus, there’s a round in the chamber. Between the two of us we can do a lot of damage.”
Before Nan could say anything more, Gus fired again and a woman fell to the floor. Mollie covered her eyes and wedged herself closer in to Nan’s back. Nan knew how to shoot—knew how to eject a spent magazine and smack in a fresh one—but she didn’t want to. What? They were going to shoot them all just because Gus got bitch-slapped? No. It didn’t seem right. Maybe there was a way to help them. Bring their humanity back to them.
A tall black man rushed Nan and clubbed her with a closed fist to the cheek and then darted away left. It hurt and nearly knocked her off her feet. Before she could turn and look to her left, she felt Mollie moving from behind her. “Damn it, just stay where you are, Mollie!”
Spinning around, Nan discovered Mollie was no longer there. She spotted two blonde women, both middle-aged, dragging Mollie away by fistfuls of her hair.
Before Nan could think she charged after them. “Get your dirty hands off her you zombie freaks!” Nan took several blows to her head and back as she ran into the mayhem. The first one to block her progress was an elderly man with a wild, white mane; she pulled her trigger and he took a bullet in the chest and fell away. She got a glimpse of Mollie’s feet as she was dragged away. Nan fired again and again, and kept on firing till she’d cleared a path to the two blondes holding Mollie. Nan ran forward and placed the muzzle of the Glock to the back of one of the women’s heads and fired. The woman fell dead in a heap, still clutching Mollie’s hair in a tight fist. In the split second Nan took to bring her gun’s aim around to the other woman, she was sent flying backwards in the air by what easily could have been an NFL defensive tackle.
She landed on her back with enough force to knock the wind out of her lungs and cause the Glock to tumble loose into the hordes behind her. Gasping to catch her breath, she heard Mollie’s muffled voice cry out, “Mommy!”
Again and again, Nan tried to sit up, but the countless strikes to her head and body, the weight of so many beings pressing in on her, made it impossible. Like a swarm of bees, they circled in and out, each taking a turn striking her before darting backward. Frantically she fought, kicking out with her feet, and punched anyone, anything, within striking distance.
Pain and fatigue quickly took its toll. Nan didn’t want to die like this—didn’t want her little girl to die like this. She covered her head with her hands, brought her legs in tight, and curled into a ball. Why isn’t Gus firing? Where the hell is he?
Suddenly, three rapid gunshots were fired above her. The mass of naked arms and legs withdrew several feet. Nan looked up, expecting to see Gus coming to her rescue. But it was Mollie, bloodied and bruised—her little girl! The NFL guy was approaching; a full head taller than anyone else, he came barreling through the throng of zombies without hesitation. Mollie fired once and the Glock’s slide clicked open. She was out of bullets.
Nan, rising to her hands and knees, somehow managed to pull herself upright. Mollie rushed into her arms and together they backed away from the mountain-sized zombie. He too was uttering nonsensical guttural noise. He paused three paces away from them.
Frantic, Nan took the gun from Mollie. Her hands were shaking so uncontrollably it took several tries to eject the spent clip. Together, they continued to back away until there was nowhere to turn. There were too many of them and they were completely encircled. Desperately, she tried to retrieve a fresh mag from her pocket, but they’d run out of time, and were rushed from all sides.
Nan felt Mollie burying her head in her chest and shaking in uncontrollable sobs. Together, they lowered to the floor and tried to make themselves smaller as fists hammered down on them. Nan saw Gus lying on his back, sprawled flat near the blast door. His face had taken an awful beating, blood pooling by his nose and mouth.
“Are we going to die, Mom?” Mollie asked, her lips trembling, terror in her voice. She looked around as if expecting another attack at any second.
Nan kicked out and missed a male teenager approaching on all fours, his teeth bared like a rabid dog’s. “I don’t know … maybe,” Nan gasped. “I’m so sorry, Mollie. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you better. I’m sorry you had to endure such horror.”
Mollie kicked out at the same teenager and connected to his lower jaw. He skittered away. “I wish I could have seen Dad again. I wish he was here.”
“Me too, sweetie … me too.”
A thunderous gunshot, louder than any Glock could produce, sent the attackers skittering away to huddle along the walls. Several, like spiders, no, like molt weevils, climbed up the walls and hung down from the ceiling pipes.
It was Mollie who saw him first. Seeing astonishment on her daughter’s face, Nan turned and looked back in the direction they’d come.
“Reese!” Mollie cried out.
His suit jacket was gone and his once stark white button-down shirt was stained with blood and dirt. He rushed to their sides and helped raise them to their feet.
“I thought you were dead. The radio. We heard you yelling,” Nan told him.
“I was trying to warn you. The bodies at the back of the truck came alive … came at me when I was asleep. I took a few fists to the face so I kicked their asses overboard. That’s when I noticed there were a lot more below, wandering around on the ground. If it wasn’t for this shotgun—the noise it makes—I don’t think I could have made it here.”
“And the others? The four women on the truck?”
“Left them jammed in the cab. Uncomfortable, but safe.” Pulling a couple of fresh shells from a satchel he wore over one shoulder, Reese reloaded. Nan did the same with the Glock. It was then she noticed the bites on Reese’s arms.
“They bit you?”
“Oh yeah, the ones outside by the truck … all carnivores looking for a meal. Give it time and these will do the same.”
Reese eyed the approaching NFL-sized guy. Even though he had a bullet hole in his upper left chest area, it hadn’t slowed him down much. He rushed forward, both arms reaching. Reese and Nan shot him at the same time—propelling him backward several yards. He came down hard on the pavement, landing like a big slab of beef.
After tha
t, the rest scurried off: either up the walls or back down the road into the darkness.
Reese turned and assessed Mollie’s injuries first, then Nan’s. “Sorry to say, but you both look like you’ve gone twelve rounds with Ali.”
“Ali Babba?” Mollie asked.
“No. Muhammad Ali … the famous boxer.” Nan smiled as she corrected her.
A deep rattling groan came from the direction of the blast door. Gus was trying to sit up. The three moved to his side and carefully helped him sit up. He coughed several times and spat blood onto the road. Leaning against the door, he used his tongue to check for missing teeth.
“Well, I still got my choppers … that’s at least something.” His gun was right where he’d dropped it and, with another groan, he leaned over and retrieved it. “What the hell are those things?”
Nan shook her head. “Something the molt weevils left behind for us.”
“I hate molt weevils,” Mollie volunteered.
“Why didn’t you just signal them to open the door?” Reese asked.
“Ha, ha, that’s not funny,” Nan said with a pained half-smile.
“I’m serious.” Reese took three steps to the far side of the door, where it opened out from the thick surrounding framework. Sure enough, they saw a large, bright red push button mounted onto a square electrical box. He looked back at the three stunned faces and slapped the button.
Nothing happened for several seconds. Then an alarm sounded and the overhead lights came back on, lighting all the way back to the first blast door. In a mass exodus, the human-ish molt weevil-zombies fell down from above and skittered away—back down the road toward the other blast door.
The massive door began to open, causing Gus to scramble to his feet. All three—Reese, Gus, and Nan—raised their weapons and pointed them at the slowly expanding opening.
The Great Space (Scrapyard Ship Book 6) Page 25
