Kodiak Chained

by Doranna Durgin

  ::If they’d seen us, they’d already be out here—or Forakkes would have sent a working at us.::

  ::Maybe we’ve made a dent in their operations after all.::

  Ruger snorted out loud. “There aren’t as many as there were before we got here, that’s for sure.” But he couldn’t hide his awkward steps or the faint glisten of drainage from his wound, and Mariska knew the truth—no matter Ruger’s restored healing ability and what he’d done with it, there wasn’t quite as much of them to go around, either.

  Dull red-ochre streaked across the ground, a lithe four-footed shape at full speed. Ciobaka ran straight to an area of complex brush and shadow, dug furiously at the ground, and silently streaked away again, his terror displayed in every line of his body.

  ::He’s seen too much,:: Mariska said, instantly heading for the spot the dog had marked.

  ::With Forakkes, there’s too damned much to see.:: Ruger took the bear as he ran—a smooth, blinding transition to Kodiak. But once at the solar tube cover, he stiffened to raise a shaggy brown head, ears swiveling tightly. ::Shields,:: he said shortly, and Mariska strengthened hers in instant response.

  She had no idea what kind of working Forakkes threw at them—only that it hit them both with an audible sense of sucking energy, distorting her shields and making Ruger grumble out loud. She fought the impulse to crouch and cover, making herself small and tight. It wouldn’t help, and she’d only be more vulnerable—and of less use to Ruger. She forced herself to lean into the working, shaping her shields into a prow the working might more easily flow around, while Ruger shook his broad head and curled his pale muzzle in a snarl and reached out to the skylight with one massive foot, four-inch claws, and brute strength.

  The plastic ripped away from the roof, flashing with a twist of tortured metal and bringing half the sky tube out with it. Mariska pushed forward in anticipation as a second effort peeled away a section of roof, exposing a structure beam. The Core working faded into little more than the stench of corruption around them, and she braced herself for another even as she assessed the facility below, shoring up her shields.

  Instead, she heard a shouted command and looked up to see two men emerging from a camouflaged doorway—this time no longer obscured by the working that had hidden it on their first approach the day before.

  Only a day.

  “Guns,” she told Ruger under her breath. Only the surge of energy beside her—and then his hand on her arm—told her that he’d taken back the human; she glanced to the hole he’d made and didn’t hesitate, crouching to grab the exposed beam and swing down into the open space below.

  She had the quick impression of the arching Quonset ceiling, a structure half the size of the one they’d left behind, crammed with equipment and bunk cubicles and a tiny kitchenette and with a single shelf of small animal cages at one end—and, directly beneath her, the large, barred cage that must have held Ciobaka.

  Clever, clever little dog—giving them a way down.

  She dropped lightly to the top of that cage, balancing on her toes with narrow bars beneath, and grabbed the side to lever herself over the edge even as Ruger swung down to join her, escaping the first sounds of gunfire from above.

  Forakkes scrambled out of his chair; the other man in the room hadn’t yet noticed them, his attention pinned to a monitor screen and his finger stabbing. “Ciobaka!” he said. “He’s helping them!”

  “Not for long, he isn’t,” Forakkes said, fumbling at a locked wooden box on his desk, taking it with him as he retreated—no fear on his face, only fury. But...his face... She recoiled from it. Hair a dry, straw-like mixture of black and gray, body bent with age but sinewy with stringy muscle, face smooth of wrinkles but skin leathery...

  He looked like nothing so much as a living mummy.

  Forakkes sneered at her. “Look good and hard,” he said. “You did this to me. Sentinels. Your damned Maks Altán. Do you think I’ll let you live?”

  “I don’t think you’ll have any choice,” Ruger said, as if he wasn’t holding his side as he straightened.

  From above came a few brief curses as the Core minions reached the torn roof and assessed the situation. Forakkes snapped, “Hold your fire! You’ll hit the equipment.”

  More cursing; one man lodged himself in the hole with his gun propped and ready but his finger over the trigger guard; the shadows of the others disappeared. Headed back this way?

  “It’s over,” Ruger told Forakkes. “Not even your Core wants you out here now. Hand over that lab coat.”

  Forakkes’ expression might have been a smile; it was hard to tell. “They’ll change their minds when I prove my work,” he said, and indicated the coat in question, festooned with pockets inside and out. “Which, as it happens, I’m just about to do.” He jerked his attention to his assistant as the man made a strangled, fearful noise and dove for a desk drawer in desperation, fumbling to snatch out a pistol. “Stop, you idiot—!”

  The man fired a wild shot as Mariska dove for him, covering the intervening space with a swiftness that visibly shocked him. She slammed his wrist against the long computer bench and twisted around him, still gripping the arm and neatly flipping him to the ground, jamming her foot on his neck—not with the killing force she could have used, but enough to make him gurgle with fear.

  Forakkes clutched the box, his fingers working the latch but his glare on Ruger. “And you Sentinels wonder why we hate you so. How is it fair that any given people should have such speed, such strength? How is it not fair that we who know of it should work to balance the power?”

  “Oh, boo-hoo,” Mariska muttered, yanking the assistant up to his knees and half walking, half dragging him over to what had been Ciobaka’s cage. She shoved him inside and would have snapped the lock closed—but it had no key. She glanced at Ruger. ::We might need it for the rest of them—::

  “Leave it,” he agreed, and she immediately moved to the nearby building entrance—just like the one at their bunker, a tunnel that curved outside the bunker itself—to press herself against the wall. Waiting. Ruger circled, putting Forakkes between the entrance and himself, and spared a glance at the caged assistant. “If he tries to come out, kill him.” He bared his teeth at the man—no longer Ruger the healer, but Ruger the bear.

  Angry bear.

  But neither of them expected what Forakkes did next—darting to that same cage with surprising alacrity, yanking the door open to slip inside...slamming it closed behind him. He jammed the box under his arm to free his hands and deftly slid the lock into place, clicking it closed. From within the cage, he smiled his leathery smile, his exposed teeth a sickly yellow and his gums receded nearly to bone.

  He held up the key.

  Mariska bit back a curse, and Forakkes laughed.

  It had an edge, that laughter...something not quite right. She wondered suddenly if his brain had turned as leathery as his skin—and to judge by Ruger’s narrowed eyes, he had his own suspicions.

  But he didn’t linger out in the open to consider them, moving fast as he joined Mariska against the wall, flanking the doorway. ::He’s not thinking this through. All we need to do is find one of their guns, and that cage offers him no safety at all.::

  She nodded at the entry, and at the rustle of movement within. ::I believe some of those guns are coming our way right now.::

  “None of that!” Forakkes snapped. “Do you think I can’t tell what you’re doing? If you want to talk, do it out loud.”

  Mariska tipped her head at him, an invitation. Or what?

  In the tunneled entry, the movement stopped, leaving only a hint of erratic breathing. Ruger shifted, just a little more ready than he had been, and Mariska prepared for Forakkes to cry a warning to his people. His assistant might have done so, had he not been watching Forakkes, holding back—all too clearly unwilling to take an initiative with the man right there.

  But Forakkes himself had other things on his mind. He worked the latch on the solid wooden box he’d g
rabbed, flipping the lid open as he jammed the container at his assistant. The man grabbed it out of self-defense, staggering back a step until he hit the bars—and the wall—behind him.

  If Mariska hadn’t been watching, she wouldn’t have seen Forakkes flick his gaze at the entry—wouldn’t have seen his sly satisfaction.

  But she was, and she did.

  ::He thinks we don’t know they’re coming up on us,:: Ruger sent to her, just as aware.

  Had come up on them was more like it. Those in the tunnel weren’t so much biding their time as they were working up their nerve. You shouldn’t have hesitated, Mariska thought at them. She sent Ruger not words, but ferocity. Readiness. She sensed more than saw his bared teeth of response.

  But Forakkes shook his head at those in the tunnel, a barely perceptible command made sinister by the glitter in his dark eyes. He indicated the sprawling security monitor—cradling an amulet for display in his other hand. “A thing of beauty,” he said. “I would say that your new four-legged friend shouldn’t have helped you if he wanted to avoid this, but the truth is it was inevitable.”

  Mariska risked a glance at the monitor—at the giant grainy webcam image displayed there.

  Ciobaka.

  He crept at the edge of camera view, reluctance and fear in the form of a dog.

  ::He’s coming to help!:: Mariska said, startled into a sharp intake of breath. Ruger’s ferocity took on a grim tone, washing against her.

  “Inevitable, but convenient that this step serves my purpose at this particular moment,” Forakkes said. “Now, when this happens to you, you’ll understand what it is, and why. Your fellow Sentinels won’t have that privilege.”

  Ruger growled, so deep and low in his chest that Mariska barely perceived it at all.

  Forakkes lifted the amulet and briefly closed his eyes. Mariska didn’t want to look—she really didn’t want to look—but she couldn’t not.

  And so she saw Ciobaka writhing on the ground, flinging dried pine needles in a cloud of dust...biting at his legs.

  “He’s far too clever with those thumbs,” Forakkes said, tossing the dulled amulet aside. “And you’ve seen the results of my experiments, haven’t you? Of course you have. No doubt you understand their brilliance. Maybe you’ve even figured out the whole point.”

  Ruger didn’t respond, but Mariska’s inner eye immediately flashed to what she’d seen of the caged animals.

  “He’ll do without dewclaws,” Ruger told her, his voice low. Inside the tunnel, the nearest minion took a few deep breaths. Getting ready...

  “And possibly without the ability to vocalize,” Forakkes agreed, plucking another amulet free of its padded slot in the box. “But not likely without large sections of his brain that he’ll lose after this.”

  “Just leave him,” Mariska said, unable to stop herself.

  Forakkes smiled. It didn’t strike Mariska as quite sane. “I think we both know that I can’t leave a talking dog out in the world.” He lifted the amulet, and his gaze flickered—and the first tunnel minion struck, his altered breath the only warning.

  Warning enough for Sentinel ears. He emerged with a gun on the rise and Mariska grabbed that wrist, wrenching the weapon away and using his resistance as an anchor—pivoting and driving upward with the heel of her hand not once but twice. His nose crunched, his mashed lip spurted blood—another shove and he flailed backward into the tunnel to crash into those who waited. Mariska got a scant glimpse of the other two men as she threw herself back at the wall and out of the line of fire.

  Within the tunnel, the man sputtered and swore and groaned, and his companions made a great deal of noise as they dragged him away.

  ::Two more,:: she told Ruger. ::But I don’t think they’ll make it that easy again.::

  He sent assent without words. He hadn’t moved, trusting her to handle it while he divided his gaze between Forakkes and the monitor, his cold fury splashing against her.

  Forakkes didn’t seem dismayed by his minion’s failure. He simply waited until they were watching him before he raised his hand and triggered the second amulet with a flourish—but Mariska refused to look at the monitor. She knew what she’d find; she knew she couldn’t do anything about it. She wasn’t about to give Forakkes the satisfaction.

  Forakkes tossed the second amulet aside; it landed with a clunk and rolled out of the cage. “As I thought,” he said, as inside the tunnel, someone thought himself stealthy, though Mariska could smell his fear. “If you could stop me, you would have done it by now.”

  “Or maybe we just think you’re right,” Ruger said. “Maybe it’s just no good to have a talking dog out in the world.” He smiled tightly at Forakkes. “On occasion, the mutual interests of the Core and the Sentinels overlap.”

  “Would you have him dead, then?”

  Hell, no! Red-ochre dog, caught up in something he couldn’t understand and didn’t deserve. Back off, Forakkes!

  Ruger’s anger reached her with the same undertone; in this, she had no doubt they felt the same. He shifted, a barely discernible gathering of intent. ::Mari—::

  ::I have your back,:: she told him.

  Not that she had any idea of his intent. It didn’t matter. Whatever it was, she’d have his back.

  Forakkes plucked up a third amulet. “Dead dog,” he said, “it is.”

  ::You have my back,:: Ruger said, by way of warning—but not much, as his eyes rolled back and he slumped against the wall. The next tunnel minion took his cue from Forakkes—only this man came out with his pistol already aimed, firing the moment he cleared the tunnel.

  She’d heard him coming; she dropped down, crouching well below the gun at chest level. He blew through six shots in quick succession without emerging the rest of the way, and Mariska hooked an arm into the tunnel, yanking one ankle out from under him. He fell hard, the wind whooping from his lungs.

  Mariska cast only the quickest of glances back at the monitor—Ciobaka lay panting on his side, but not writhing, not dying—and then at Ruger. He pushed back against the curving metal wall, his hands flat to it and his jaw hard, his eyes flickering with movement beneath closed lids.

  And Forakkes...

  Forakkes was furious. Furious and baffled.

  Unexpected pride surged through Mariska. She had no idea how Ruger thwarted the man—how he saved Ciobaka from that final amulet—but her job was still clear enough. Got your back, she thought, keeping it only to herself, and leaped up for the tunnel—going straight to the bear on the way and landing on the man she’d just taken down. She grasped his head in her clever bear paws and took him out, a mere ripple of strength—twisting just so in a very human way and then raising her gaze to the remaining two men, horrified and scrambling away from her. They stumbled over one another, only one gun left between them and no teamwork at all, and Mariska came on.

  Got your back, Ruger Bear.

  Chapter 23

  Core corruption slapped against Ruger with a hard hand—another wave of it, another working, piling up on the one that had stolen Ciobaka’s voice. The final working to kill the young dog, taking away all the changes to his mind...leaving him in pieces, just as Forakkes had killed all his previous experiments.

  Just as he meant to kill Ruger and Mariska, ripping from them the very essence of the bear, and the way he ultimately meant to trigger his working on every Sentinel in the region.

  The wild, yipping howl of a bereft wild dog, the wash of a vile stench... A hollow huffing sound, followed by a clacking, the surge of fear...a tremendous explosion. And then an entire chorus of grief, animal skins fluttering to the ground like sodden laundry. Wolf and bear, panther and boar, wildcat and stoat and deer. Crumpled up and discarded, and a nation of grief splashing in to wash it all away—

  Ruger couldn’t reach Forakkes—not physically. He couldn’t stop Forakkes.

  But the amulet working was, at its most basic, an unhealing.

  What was Ruger, if not healing?

  Got your ba
ck, Ruger Bear.

  The whisper trickled through his awareness as he slipped into the cool, clear energies of healing—the ones that had always been there, and were now once again waiting for his touch, his direction.

  The ones he now threw out ahead of the working to absorb the unhealing as it came on. Not just a wall of energy, but a whirling dance between the working and the healing—a race to keep the tumbling Core energies matched with equal energy from moment to moment. Ruger lost himself to it, spinning and diving and weaving of himself an antidote to the working. He shuddered in the reverberations of Ciobaka’s terrified pain when a strand of power slipped through; he redoubled his efforts and watched the working fade, slowly losing its momentum and density...

  Until it merely licked at Ruger’s gathered energies, faint surges of destruction going nowhere.

  He gave the working a final swipe of healing power and watched it dissipate completely.

  When he opened his eyes, he had to blink away sweat. The facility smoldered with the stench of suppressed Core workings, closing down around him in resentful, sullen failure; Ruger straightened on legs that felt not nearly as strong as they should. Not without price.

  From the tunnel, Mariska’s bear coughed a roar of warning; a man screamed, and then screamed again—and then choked off into silence.

  Forakkes glared at him from within the cage, his hand clenched so tightly around the burnt-out amulet that Ruger wondered those old joints could take the strain.

  Older than they’d ever guessed, at that—old enough so the age plucked at healer’s senses sharp from recent use. He followed that leaden demand—and he found that which he’d only begun to suspect. Layers of twisted scars in body and mind, layers of corrupting energy, fused to thought and will.

  “Enough,” he told the man, his voice rasping with the strain of what he’d done. “End this, Forakkes. You’re not well.”