BOOM! Buh-BOOM!
The stork blasts apart in a double explosion. The engine first, then the weapons cache in the passenger section. In the centre of each blast is a yellow energy pulse that lights up the entire canyon. Where the two pulses overlap it grows white, crackling hot. It spits and hisses in a fit of short-lived but violent alchemy. Molten metal debris shoots out far and wide, reaching the cliffs on either side. The initial explosion must have vaporized both Sheikers, because when the light show dies down I can see no evidence that they were ever there.
Their colleagues pick themselves up from the riverside rock and stagger back to the spot where they’d stood before.
Walpole lies motionless on the ground. Lohengrin? Lohengrin I can’t see anywhere. What’s happened to him?
I don’t have time to reflect on what I’ve just done. Through the blood-red afterglow where the engine used to be, Sergei fires his first arrow. Its metal tip reacts somehow with the fumes in the air and acts like a tracer bullet, a laser-like streak. It pierces one of the Sheikers through the top of his chest. The man collapses to his knees, leans back as though he’s about to plead to the moons. With one hand clutching the arrow and the other firing his weapon skyward, he spasms to ground, doesn’t stop writhing. Then a second arrow, aimed at another Sheiker, misses its target by a whisper. Worse still, the man appears to spot where it came from and immediately sprints around this side of the wreckage, to hunt the hunter.
Christ. Hold on, Sergei! Don’t do anything else brave.
It’s now up to Sarazzin. All our lives depend on him retrieving the fallen Sheiker’s gun—and being as good a shot as he boasts. It’s no time for doubting him. But as the seconds tick by and he doesn’t show himself, I can’t help remembering the loud-mouth emperor of the Hex. Tough with his bodyguards behind him, nothing on his own.
That was a lifetime ago. He darts out from the cover of our charred shuttle and makes the distance in a blink—easily the fastest we’ve ever seen him move. He prises the weapon from its owner’s rigour-mortised fingers. Meanwhile, the three surviving Sheikers disappear around the south end of the wreckage, near the waterfall. They're bearing down on Sergei, in a place I can’t see...
And I’m supposed to just wait here until it’s over?
Sarazzin has the gun, he moves confidently with it—not cocky, confident. He follows the arc of the enemies' path. Smart. Learn from the professionals. He barely reaches the centre of the stork when a clap of gunfire halts him in his tracks. He crouches. I clench to the core. Everything else goes fuzzy, kind of out of body for a heartbeat or three. Has Sergei been hit?
From the way Sarazzin shuffles sideways on his tiptoes and puts a hand down to steady himself, it looks as if he might have taken a bullet.
He hasn’t. He springs up like a runner from the blocks a split-second before I see Sergei spill out from behind the stork. The Minsk Machine lands headlong in a heap, as though he’s been thrown or kicked with frightening force. A weapon slides away from him across the rock. But it isn’t his bow, it’s a Sheiker’s rifle! Somehow, somehow he’s disarmed a killer.
Now, Sarazzin, now!
Our enemies anticipate it. One of the hooded figures bursts into view and right away performs an impossible leap-roll with such momentum it covers the ground to Sergei’s position before Sarazzin has chance to aim. Sergei makes for the rifle. But the figure throws off its cloak and towers above him, unfolding its hunched form into a new, terrifying shape—
An unfurled, comb-like array of limbs on either side of the torso flutter like the wings of a featherless eagle. Now they stiffen, ready for combat. Two of the limbs wield sharp, scimitar-like blades. The creature has no head comparable to a human head. Instead, its eyes and audio receptors lie somewhere in the sinuous shoulder spine bridging all the digit-endowed limbs, six or seven on either side. The torso is a drooping trunk of extremely tough material. It's also armour-plated. The breastplate is elaborately designed, a reminder that these creatures, while monstrous to humans, are a highly advanced alien race. Advanced, sly, and treacherous.
Otherwise known as Finaglers!
It's the first time any of my friends has seen one in the flesh. And it's a frightening reminder for me, that these things are every bit as hideous as the legends made them out to be.
Sergei doesn't hesitate. When he sees that he won’t get there in time to fire the rifle before his monstrous enemy overpowers him, he does something brilliant. Something crazy. He slides into a kick that sends the weapon clean over the waterfall.
Now the odds tip slightly in our favour. Sarazzin has the only rifle.
But no sooner do I pump a fist in celebration than the wily Finagler executes a bold chess move of its own. He grabs Sergei by the throat and holds him at knifepoint, using him as a human shield. So after all that, Sarazzin can’t shoot. He can't risk hitting Sergei.
That’s it. I can’t stand to be on the side-lines anymore, so I abandon my post and scramble down the slope. A few of the others call me back but my mind is made up. This is something I have to do. Two against three, without the element of surprise, is not good enough for us. For junior buggos on our first-ever field assignment. Up against monsters and trained killers. It needs to be three against three, at least.
I think about going for the bow and quiver but remember how sore my fingers got just trying to draw the damn thing. I snatch up a sharp rock instead, one I could maybe sort of inflict some damage with. Hell, it’s better than hiding in a cave.
To my surprise—and delight—the others agree. They pile out of their cave brandishing rocks of their own. Not running but striding, stalking. Lyssa leads them, followed by Heathcote—she-wolves come to strengthen the pack. Orkney and Ramirez bring up the rear. It suddenly feels like we have a chance in this fight.
The Finagler has other ideas. And it doesn’t wait around. With Sergei still in its clutches, it advances on Sarazzin with almost supernatural deftness. Sarazzin, taken aback by the bold move, doesn’t retreat quickly enough. In fact, he doesn’t do much of anything. The result finds the Finagler on top of him well before the rest of us can get there. It lets go of Sergei in order to disarm poor Sarazzin.
That’s the Finagler’s big mistake. Underestimating the power of the Minsk Machine. In that half a breath between relaxing its hold and snatching the weapon, the Finagler is vulnerable. And that’s the moment Sergei’s been waiting for. He grabs one of the creature's blades by the handle, braces himself against the stiff, comb-like limbs, and with a stunning downward jerk, yanks the weapon from the Finagler's grip. He instantly hacks the monster's sword-arm off at the elbow joint.
It erupts a terrifying, ear-piercing scream, then knocks Sergei to the floor.
Sarazzin panics, fires a snapshot at the wounded Finagler. Only hits its armour. The bullet ricochets off into the night. Before Sarazzin can fire a second time, another Finagler, now unhooded, leaps out from the cover of the wreckage. Its momentum careens it into Sarazzin, bowling him over. They go down together.
The last Sheiker, who was also using the wreckage as cover, now jumps into the melee, desperate to get hold of the rifle. His own is now at the bottom of the waterfall. A vicious free-for-all ensues on the ground. Sergei punches and kicks with all his might. The Sheiker fends him off while desperately trying to yank the gun from Sarazzin’s life-or-death grasp.
Meanwhile, the two Finaglers stand erect a short distance away, not wanting to get shot by accident. Their blades are poised at the ready. First chance they get, they'll slice Sergei and Sarazzin into pieces.
The rest of us circle round at a distance, also not wanting to get shot by accident! One stray finger hooking the trigger is all it would take, and it’s way too chaotic for us to intervene.
Something makes me look round to see if my other pal—Lohengrin—has shown up yet. He hasn’t. My first thought is that he was thrown back out of sight by the force of the blast. Then I realise how close he was to the river...
Saraz
zin’s almost spent. His breather has been ripped open near the top, so he can’t keep this up for much longer. On the verge of being overpowered, he takes a leaf from the Minsk Machine’s playbook and attempts to toss the rifle. But in our direction this time. A one-armed throw. It’s a good effort but it skids over the slick rock and doesn’t land anywhere near us. To my horror, I realise it's actually closer to the Finaglers. If they get to it first, we'll all be dead!
It's a sprint race for the gun. The uninjured Finagler lumbers, its shoulder spines hunched, but it has a big stride. It will definitely get there before Lyssa and before me. We both figure that out at the same time and halt in our tracks. It's no use. All we can do is run for it and take cover. Back to the caves. But we don't. We can't. Not while Sergei is fighting for his life out here.
The Finagler reaches the rifle, hunkers down over it, and brandishes its blades in our direction while it works out the best way to handle the gun. It switches between limbs—some have one elbow joint, others have two or three. Maybe its own firearms aren't as heavy or clumsy. Maybe its fat, talon-like digits can't pull such a small trigger. Whatever the reason, it's unsure how to kill us with the rifle.
So it decides to carve us up instead.
Lys and I circle round its advance, our sharp rocks tight in our fists. It lopes at an angle with a bow-legged stride, its shoulder spine curling in at the edges for defence. The backs of its limbs are covered with rock-hard scales. It looks pretty much invulnerable but for the sensory spots we know are located along the top of its spine. Apparently it has three-sixty vision and is double-jointed, so that it can switch its direction of attack or defence instantly. Very hard to sneak up on.
“Um, what do we do?” I ask Lyssa.
“Don't know. Just don't let it get close. Whatever happens.”
“We're running out of space.” I motion to the caves behind us. We don't want to get trapped in there, but we might not have any choice. “Maybe we can get somewhere he can't,” I suggest. “He's bigger but he's clumsy. We can fit in tight places where he can't.”
“You have somewhere in mind?” she asks, watching her footing at the bottom of a scree slope.
The Finagler doesn't attack. It seems to be herding us somewhere, right where it wants us. Anything else is preferable. “Near the harpoon gun, there are loads of stalagmites. It's a really tight fit to get through them.”
“You're on.” She turns and scrabbles up the jagged tiers of the lower cliff. I stay right behind. It's the fastest I've ever climbed. If it's quick enough to leave the monster in the dust then we might have a chance.
It isn't. He's somehow leapt up ahead of us, anticipating our retreat. Astride the harpoon gun, he leans menacingly over us, blades drawn and set to slice us in half. Lys and I instinctively push off each other and land in dusty heaps somewhere on the scree. The dirt covers my visor, so I wipe a clear streak with my fingers.
When I look up, the Finagler is on its knees, buckling under a vicious onslaught. Metal clangs against metal. Metal clinks on rock. Blood spurts from several gashes in the Finagler's shoulder spine. At least three of its limbs are missing. I glance across at Lys; she looks right back. Whoever's come to our aid, it's someone we didn't count on. Someone with deadly fighting skills. To take on a Finagler single-handed and get the upper hand! Insane. Where did this person come from? Why wasn't he here a few minutes ago? Who is he?
Dust kicked up high by the frantic brawl masks the identity of this mystery warrior, but I can make out the intense blue light of a glowsuit. Clang! Clink! Clang! Then nothing. Finally, a savage hacking noise followed by a gurgled whine signifies the end of the combat. The Finagler's wing-like shoulder span slumps back against the overhanging rock. Its injuries are shockingly deep. Its whole body gives off one last spastic flutter, then it dies.
As the dust settles, the victor strides out, blades dripping, and glares down at us. The blaze of her glowsuit reflects in her big, livid eyes.
“Rachel?”
She doesn't even blink. She looks so skinny, feminine. Streaks of dark Finagler blood run down her visor. Strands of her Lunar white hair, matted with sweat and blood, stick to her breather and any exposed skin. She looks feral, fragile and furious, all at the same time.
“Rachel?” Lyssa asks this time. “How did you—”
“The others are in trouble. We need to go help them,” she says so matter-of-factly it sounds pre-programmed, like she's repeating a computer command. No emotion. She hands me and Lys a blade each and then picks up the rifle from the dead Finagler's grip.
“The others? Shit!” I suddenly remember Sergei, who's still fighting for his life.
Rachel surfs down the scree slope like she's done it a thousand times. Lys and I slip-slide after her, trying to keep up. I watch the action unfold ahead of us, but it's now so dark I can only make out flames of the burning stork, and the glowsuits. Three of them. Standing together somewhere near the edge.
As we approach, the situation becomes even more precarious.
The other Finagler lies dead in the flames of the burning stork, pierced by at least three arrows. Sergei's handiwork? Or Rachel's? I realise I don't know who she is or what she's capable of. But the Finaglers are both dead. Which leaves the last surviving Sheiker...
“Don't come any closer! Any of you!” comes the cry from the edge of the precipice. It's the Sheiker, the last enemy standing, and he's engaged in a desperate clinch with Sergei. The prize is what appears to be a pulse grenade. Sergei's holding onto it for dear life, must have snatched it from his enemy moments before the mercenary pulled the pin. I can see him grimacing, that Russian scowl I know so well suddenly the only thing keeping us all from being vaporized!
“Rachel, help him!” I snap at her. That came out way more angry than I intended, but this is Sergei for chrissakes.
She lifts the rifle to take aim but halts, shakes her head. “I don't have a clear shot. I could hit Sergei.”
“Then hit the guy in the leg, the shoulder. Anything! Jesus, even I could hit him from here.”
“It's too risky, Jim. I can't let you.”
Crap.
Sergei's got it in his head that if he can just hold the grenade close to him, using the brute strength of his hands and arms, he might have a chance. But the older, more experienced soldier knows a great deal more about hand-to-hand combat. After eyeing us, he concedes leverage on the grenade in order to gain a stronger position—inching behind Sergei. Christ. I can sense some final killing blow is about to be struck, but what can I do? They’re teetering on the edge!
From out of nowhere, Sarazzin charges in. His shoulders are down, his blood is up. He unleashes the craziest football tackle I’ve ever seen, launching all his weight at the gob-smacked Sheiker. It works—insofar as ending the tug of war. The force of the impact, though, shudders through every last buggo. We watch in horror as Sarazzin spills over the edge, quickly followed by the grenade. He manages to pull the Sheiker with him. But the latter, in turn, chooses not to go cheaply. He reaches up and tugs the fold of Sergei’s over-sized suit...
The Minsk Machine loses his balance, goes over. I’m already racing flat-out but can I get there in time? The rock is slick with spray from the waterfall right where he’s scrabbling. Come on, big guy. Don’t you dare!
Oh Christ, he’s going.
I dive to reach him, land badly. It knocks the wind out of me. My crooked fingers anchor his. Through the blunt, romping pain in my gut whispers a delicate thought: I’m holding Sergei. I can hold Sergei.
Then the reply, less delicate: But there’s no one holding you.
I slip.
We fall.
Into darkness.
CHAPTER 17
Lost
After the hurtful shock of slapping into cold water, I thrash about under the surface, trying like hell to locate the surface. It’s so utterly dark down here at the bottom of the waterfall, I can’t tell which way is up. So I stop struggling and just let the air in my lungs
buoy me instead. It takes longer than I’d imagined to hear the full-on roar of the cascade again. I can’t even guess how far the fall was, how deep I sank. All I know is my left shoulder throbs, my ears hurt, and I’m on the move.
To where, how fast—I have no idea.
“Sergei? You there? Where are you?” It’s unlikely he can hear me over the racket, but it feels like I’m drifting rapidly away from the waterfall. The thunder fades a little. My next shout, amplified by the breather's external speaker, echoes high and wide: “Sergei, yell if you can hear me!”
“Jim! I can hear you. Can’t see you.”
I think about splashing as a way to communicate—the sound might help us find each other—but it’s more or less a torrent we’re in. Even away from the waterfall’s roar, it’s pretty loud, so splashing makes no difference.
The flow accelerates. A wicked undertow keeps jerking me down, twisting me this way and that. I have to kick hard and fight with my arms just to stay in contact with the surface. It’s tiring, but if I lose that bearing I might never come up again.
“Jim, ditch—suit! It’s block—”
I’m snatched under again. When I regain the surface, faint words repeat over and over, barely registering over a growing rumble from up ahead. “Swim to me, Jim. Here! Swim! Swim to me!”
I swivel a three-sixty, see nothing at first. The noise is deafening now. Then I glimpse it. Somewhere out there in the blackness, a sliver of blue light breaches the surface. It shines a brilliant, far-reaching sapphire glow that shows, for the first time, the vague dimensions of the tunnel and the river.
They’re massive. About as wide as a football pitch is long and angry, almost wall-to-wall white water. The cavern itself appears to be shaped like a huge eye, but it’s so high in the centre I can’t even see the ceiling. It’s an ancient, hidden watercourse taking us deep into the bowels of Mars.
Star Binder Page 20
