House of Reeds ittotss-2

by Thomas Harlan

  "Nineteen…back to twenty…nineteen…holding at twenty meters."

  The outer lock blossomed open. Hadeishi clenched his fists around the jet controls and puffed out of the opening. The vast bulk of the Cornuelle loomed before him, a wall of ebon darkness slanting up against a rampart of stars. He thumbed the thruster control and swept toward the bay doors outlined on his visor by suit comp. Fitzsimmons waited two breaths, and then followed himself, careful to keep from fouling the medical aid pack on his back in the airlock.

  "I have the bay access door in sight," Hadeishi said, changing course slightly.

  Understoo -

  The autonomic targeting system in the nearer railgun suddenly identified the launch as a hostile vessel launching self-propelled missiles towards the Cornuelle. The anti-missile mount flared a brilliant blue-white. A depleted uranium needle two millimeters long accelerated to near-relativistic speed, exited the magnetic 'racetrack' and punched through the captain's launch from end to end. The needle pierced the forward pressure windows fifteen centimeters from Asale's head, flashed the length of the tiny cabin, drilled directly through Deckard's z-suit, his ribs on the right side, one lung and then out the other and impaled itself in the launch's magnetically shielded Hosukai-Tesla reaction drive chamber. An enormous amount of energy vomited into the interior of the tiny ship as the needle stopped abruptly. Deckard was incinerated as thousand degree plasma flooded in through the rupture in his z-suit. Asale lasted a moment longer, smashed against the control panel, her suit withstanding the pressure and heat for three and then four seconds, then suffering catastrophic structural failure. The launch spaceframe buckled, unable to contain the explosion and then sublimated into a blast of heat and light and debris.

  The explosion flared out, smashing into Hadeishi and Fitzsimmons and hurling them against the side of the Cornuelle. Both men were still accelerating towards the boat bay door. Fitzsimmons and his heavy load afforded the Chu-sa a tiny fraction of protection, but the Marine's corpse became a missile a half-second later and Hadeishi was slapped against the armored hull of the ship by a giant, raging hand of flame.

  The z-suit stiffened on impact, trying to bleed away the shock of collision, but the violence was too much for Hadeishi's nervous system to absorb and he grayed out, grasping fruitlessly at the smooth metal surface of the hull. His medband triggered, flushing his system with adrenaline, anti-radiation agents and painkillers. Tangled in Fitzsimmons' body, fragments of the launch smashing against the bay doors around him, the Chu-sa skidded across the hull, impelled by the dying wavefront of the explosion.

  Jolted back to awareness by the drugs, his heart hammering violently in his chest, arms and legs numb, Hadeishi twisted, trying to get his hands and feet face-front. Fitzsimmons' charred z-suit sloughed away, breaking up as the straps for the Marine's ruck disintegrated. A cloud of blackened and melted medpacks flew out around the Chu-sa. Hundreds of hours of z-suit drill as a cadet and a junior officer reasserted themselves in a reflexive, four-square crouch. The gripper pads in Hadeishi's gloves and boots realized they were in proximity to shipskin and activated. Friction increased dramatically between the two surfaces and the Chu-sa slid to a halt.

  Ionized gases and plasma-hot particles blew past, dinging on his faceplate and z-suit. Hadeishi focused, saw the boat bay door was a hundred meters away, and tried to grapple mentally with the concept his launch, his pilot and two of his men had been obliterated from the universe in less than sixteen seconds of sidereal time.

  Ah, he moaned inwardly, so many ghosts will haunt me. So many ghosts. Is there enough incense in all Shinedo to placate your wailing cries?

  Then the Chu-sa settled his breathing, forced every thought from his mind but the necessity of survival and began spider-walking across the hull towards the access door. Hidden by the z-suit, his med-band was burning crimson. A too-familiar stabbing pain rippled up his side with each movement, but Hadeishi only bent his head and continued to force arms and legs to move.

  I will never fear loneliness, he sang to himself, crawling forward. I will always be accompanied.

  Before long, I shall be a ghost

  But just now, how they bite my flesh

  These autumn winds.

  Parus The District of the Wheel

  Rain poured down from a muddy, discolored sky. The gutters rushed with dark water, swirling around ancient drains clogging with leaves, paper bags and discarded wreaths of golden flowers. Four Arachosians – faces hidden under sharp-brimmed, waxed rain-hats – splashed through spreading pools and up to the ornately carved doors of a temple squeezed in between two larger, newer buildings.

  Two of the highlanders swung a spike-headed ram between them. The wooden doors crashed aside, lock and bar broken, and the others leapt in, kalang-knives flashing. Inside, a lookout was hewn down – no priest he, in the gaudy harness and trappings of a pimp – and the Arachs bounded down age-blackened steps and into rooms once dedicated to a now-forgotten god. They burst into a chamber filled with hazy layers of drifting tchun-smoke and the hot neon glow of dozens of modern three-d gambling machines. Soft-scaled lowlander patrons surged up, horrified by the sight of long, lean highland reavers plunging among them, and the sound of wailing screams rang clearly through the spyeye feed. Blood spattered through the intricate holovee writhing in the heart of the nearest machine.

  The kujen's board of taxation should pay me a stipend. Itzpalicue's wrinkled lips twitched in amusement and she shifted the active feed, searching for the next of her hunting teams. But this is not the lair of my enemy.

  Arachosians loped through an empty warehouse, narrow snouts questing for signs of any inhabitants. The old NГЎhuatl woman could see the tracks of heavily laden carts on the dirt floor.

  She switched the feed.

  An Imperial-model truck careened around a corner, highlanders hanging off the sides, sopping-wet cloaks clinging to muscled scale, sending a wave of dirty water splashing against the wall of a house. Rain drummed on the roof of the cab. Arachosians on the runner boards pointed the driver towards a row of beehive-shaped workshops. Smoke puffed up into the rain from a forge chimney. The gate to a muddy yard crashed open, smashed aside by an armored bumper. The Arachs sprang down, striding through deep mud, assault rifles at the ready.

  A sliding door on the side of the long, low building flew open and a crowd of angry metal-workers poured out into the yard, claws filled with hammers, tongs and lengths of iron bar. The spyeye darted past over their heads as the first burst of bullets tore into the workmen. Itzpalicue muted the sound on the feed – the warbling cries of dying Jehanan irritated her – and shook her head in disgust. The gleaming, modern shapes of two industrial welders sat on wooden platforms on one side of the long forge-room. Cables snaked across a spotless floor to four fuel-cell generators.

  Stacks of recycled Imperial iron, aluminum and steel ingots stood behind a locked barricade.

  Disappointed, Itzpalicue switched the feed.

  An Arachosian glided out from behind a wagon heaped with firewood, assault rifle raised to a shoulder armored with quilted padding. Two more of the highlanders crept along behind, grenades and knives in their claws. Without warning, the rifle stuttered flame. The spyeye view rotated and lowland Jehanan in the livery of the kujen of Parus were staggering, raked with bullets. A heavy plastic case fell to the ground between the infantrymen and Itzpalicue straightened up in her nest of blankets, recognizing the shape of a military ordnance crate.

  The woman tapped her comm alive. "Take some of them alive," she rasped, catching the attention of the Arachosian durbar commanding the hunter team. "Don't damage the goods!"

  The knife-wielding Arachosians surged forward, broad feet light on the muddy ground, and were upon the surviving Jehanan in the blink of an eye. Two of the survivors were thrown to the ground and secured with ziptight restraints. The Arachs with rifles circled the truck carefully, searching for survivors. Itzpalicue's spyeye drifted into the covered cargo bed, lingered o
n three more plastic crates and she dialed up the magnification on the 'eye enough to read the stenciled lettering.

  "Albanian work," she muttered, thumbing a translator glyph on her display. The angular Slavic letters were familiar, though she hadn't bothered to learn the little-used dialect.

  Orkan anti-mobile-armor tactical missile, type three, export restricted, the comp declared.

  "Mobile armor?" Itzpalicue frowned thunderously. "Lachlan?"

  The Yirishman's head, dark beard entirely foul with bits of food, turned in the v-pane. The xochiyaotinime did not authorize any restricted imports. Only the outdated anti-tank missiles. He pursed his lips, consulting a secondary display. This model of the Orkan is designed to neutralize a Fleet powered armor suit, or one of the Tonehua APAC's the 416th has in service. Very nasty – fires a cloud of self-tracking hypervelocity composites with reactive warheads – crew of two, integrated ammunition canisters, low-firing profile…

  "Expensive. Someone has been spending freely to entertain us." Itzpalicue tapped her comm back to the Arachosian ground channel. A second team of highlanders had arrived and the apparently abandoned houses around the wagon-yard were being searched. "Put your prisoners to the question – who sold them these weapons, where were they going?"

  The Arach durbar hissed in reply and knelt over one of the Parusian soldiers. The lowlander soft-scale hooted miserably, eyes fixed on the gleaming edge of the kalang-knife. The glittering point descended and Itzpalicue watched with clinical interest, sound muted on the channel, as the creature writhed and whimpered and finally, when the mud was puddling crimson, she heard what she had been waiting weeks to hear.

  The durbar turned, catching sight of the translucent spyeye hovering at his shoulder and exposed many serrated, blackened teeth. The pretty softscale says these weapons came from a light-scaled asuchau. He has brought them many such devices in the last two weeks. This light-scale made many promises of help from 'friends far away.'

  "A blond human? Lachlan…" The old NГЎhuatl woman growled, feeling her blood quicken.

  I've dispatched a collection team to scope the equipment cases. Perhaps we can recover some skin flakes or hair or something to let us match to known humans on the planet.

  "Are any of the Flower Priest agents lighthaired? Is someone playing a double-game?"

  Lachlan tilted his head to one side, listening to his earbug. There is one, he replied, a Finn. He's used for high-level contacts with Jehanan elements sufficiently educated in Imperial politics to understand he might represent the HKV. His name is Timonen. His Mirror jacket says he's entirely reliable…

  "Bring him in anyway." Itzpalicue shifted her attention back to the durbar. "Seal the truck and make sure nothing happens to the contents. Dispose of your captives as you please, but hold position until a pickup team reaches you." She smiled wickedly. "You've done well with this capture, durbar. You and your clan will be well rewarded."

  The Arachosian flashed teeth again and saluted the drifting mote with his kalang. His forearm was drenched in blood.

  Itzpalicue shifted the feed, eager for news.

  Forty-five minutes later, Lachlan interrupted her scanning. His entire face was impassive and tight, which immediately warned her the Йirishman bore poor news.

  Our Timonen is dead. A retrieval team has been checking the safe houses the xochiyaotinime provided for his cover as a purveyor of medical supplies, hoping to pick up a fresh DNA trace. They found an unusually high concentration in a bathroom in his Yellow Flagstone district flat. The team leader got suspicious and they tore the place apart. Looks like Timonen was murdered, dissolved with a bio-acid and flushed down the lavatory. Whoever did it cleaned up – the team found bleach and antigen foam residue in the tile cracks – but Jehanan toilets don't flush clean.

  "Hmm…" Itzpalicue's white eyebrows made a V over her sharp nose. "How long has he been dead?"

  Decay rates on the remains in the sewer line indicate a week or two.

  The old N'huatl woman blinked. "Strange…that's not much time to make so much mischief… Do we have a track on 'Timonen' afterwards?"

  Yes, Lachlan smiled grimly. He's been lead on nearly every contact with the inner circle of the cabal, in dispersing weapons to the factions, in providing intelligence, planning and other supplies. Right at the heart of their whole effort in Parus.

  "This is the one," Itzpalicue snarled, feeling fate gelling around her. "This is the creature I've felt moving at the edge of perception. Find him! Retask every team in the city, in the whole district. Arachosians, our men, the Whisperers, everyone!"

  The old woman sat back, the tips of her fingers running along the rows of maguey spines piercing the sleeves of her mantle. The spines felt hard, smooth and glossy under her touch, like polished bone.

  As you say, mi'lady. Lachlan began calling instructions to his subordinates. Then he said: Should I pass this intel about the Orkan to Regimental command?

  "No." Itzpalicue displayed a cold smile. "Yacatolli and his men are managing. Let them show their true abilities – both the Mirror and Army command will be interested in the results."

  The Cornuelle A Decaying Orbit Over Continent Four

  Clinging to the aft boat bay access door, Hadeishi coughed violently. The cutting tool in his hand flew loose, but was almost immediately stopped by a lanyard cinched to his equipment belt. The Chu-sa tried to breathe normally, felt the cool tickling of more coagulants and stabilizers flooding his body and opened his eyes. Reddish spots confused his vision for a moment, until he realized they were on the inside of the face-plate.

  Not a good sign, he thought ghoulishly, keenly aware of a crystalline layer of pain suppression narcotics insulating fragile consciousness from the pain wracking his body. I must be getting tubercular.

  He forced his hand to grasp the cutting tool, oriented the microscopic plasma beam emitter towards the emergency access plate cover and thumbed the control. A blue-white flare answered the motion and the beam resumed cutting away the damaged plate. The access door itself was undamaged, but the layer of shipskin covering the mechanism had been mortally wounded, stiffening into a hard, steel-like consistency. The flood of heat from the x-ray laser had distorted the fabric of the shipskin as well, occluding parts of the door and the access port.

  Hadeishi completed the cut and the fold of shipskin came loose. Reaching in, he found the recessing bolt, drew it back and the entire cover came loose. Hadeishi felt a surge of relief. Something had gone his way at last, if only finding the green 'ready' light gleaming inside the cover. He punched an override code into the panel and let the Fleet transponder in his suit discuss security matters with the door.

  Idle, his stunned mind fixed on the explosion which had obliterated the launch. A point-defense railgun must have targeted us. Ship's ident processor has been damaged.

  An unusually long period of time passed as the two systems chattered to one another. Hadeishi managed to keep both hands flat on the door, letting the suit grippers hold him to the hull. He tried sucking some water from a tube in the neck ring of his suit, but his whole chest throbbed painfully and he abandoned the effort. He was very thirsty.

  At length, the access door shivered, the bolts retracted and a darkened airlock opened before him. Wary – the emergency lights should be on – Hadeishi drifted inside and spun the locking wheel to rotate the outer door closed. As he did so, a single emergency illumination panel woke to life, strobed intermittently for a few moments and went out.

  Hadeishi punched his access code into the inner lock door. Nothing happened, though the ready light was shining green on the panel. Feeling a cough coming on, the Chu-sa braced himself against the wall, let his broken chest heave for a moment and the salt and iron taste of blood fill his mouth. Then he checked his z-suit's environmental readouts. Pressure stood at zero in the airlock, though closing the outer door should have caused the chamber to flood with air.

  Inner lock won't open to zero-pressure, he realized. Air circulat
ion pumps must be dead.

  Licking his lips, Hadeishi eyeballed his z-suit air reserve, trying to remember what minimum air pressure was to reset the safety sensor on the inner door. Three-quarters of a tank. Let's try half that.

  Numb fingers unscrewed a valve on his shoulder pack, allowing a cross-connect hose to emerge from the environmental package on the suit. Hadeishi bounced gently from side to side in the lock, searching for the pressure sensors. After a moment, he gave up. Again, he braced himself against the wall next to the access panel and opened the valve.

  A faint hissing sound grew louder, second by second. Hadeishi watched his air gauge fixedly, feeling fainter moment by moment as the capacity marker shrank. At one-half, he closed the valve, feeling dizzy and nauseous.

  The environmental readout showed non-zero pressure.

  The Chu-sa forced his hand – fingers trembling – to punch in the access code. There was another pause. The green indicator flashed to amber, then red. A message appeared on the tiny display. Hadeishi leaned in, having trouble focusing.

  Ship's atmosphere compromised, the message read, rebreather support is required.

  Hadeishi mashed his thumb against the override button. There was a trembling vibration in the wall under his shoulder. The inner lock door opened, grayish smoke rushing in. The Chu-sa stumbled through into the boat bay and weakly pushed the airlock door closed behind him.

  Everything was very dark, save in the direct beam of his suit lamps, which pierced a smoky, turgid gloom. Hadeishi clutched for a guiderail, found the slim tubing along the wall, and began to pull himself forward, squinting into the haze.

  At the first bulkhead outside of the boat bay proper, the Chu-sa kicked slowly down a transverse corridor, trying to reach one of the four lengthwise access ways which led from the stern forward. The smoke fouling the aft hangar section thinned but he was becoming seriously concerned. He had yet to see a single crewman, the lights were out, his comm failed to find a single relay node and the air was still unbreathable. Charred debris floated everywhere, making movement in the dark difficult.