But one woman liked the danger and hinted at more, so he took her out to his favorite places in Berlin. Borrowing a grav cycle from Ivar's Cycles, he flew them across the city to Adda's Ice Cream where she ordered a child's size Vanilla Torch, and he told them to make him seven strawberry crepes.
"I like how you ordered your food." Her dirty blond bangs were cut in a line across her head and the rest of her hair was cut sharp at the ends above her shoulders.
"How is your food?" He leered at Adda.
"Hotter than I thought."
"Do you want something else?"
"No, that's okay." She dug some of the vanilla from under the spicy crust right before he grabbed the container and threw it at Adda, hitting her in the face.
"The food is too hot!" Gungnir rose, a thin smile on his lips.
"Please, Mr. Odinson... I'll make another."
"Do so."
She didn't complain this time. Their next stop was The Wotan Temple. It was 3rd Work Day, and the golden Plasstien place of worship was packed with devotees of the All-Father.
"Have you been to this one?" He helped her down and unbuckled her helm. The wind whisked at his blond mane, and he shook his head to move his hair out of his face.
"No, I go to the Freyja's Temple every 5th Work Day and give a small offering. I haven't been inside a Wotan Temple for a few months, and I hoped you'd bring me to one. This is such an honor, Gungnir."
"Yes, it is." When her face wilted, he smiled. "Come with me."
They entered in through the front door, pushing everyone aside until he reached the main desk.
"Gungnir Odinson!" He nodded his head and pressed a button behind the counter. "An honor to have you here, my lord. Is this your guest or a sacrifice?"
He hadn't decided yet but the night was still young, and he had plenty of time to make his decision.
* * *
Eyvindr was two moves from winning, and Gungnir was stalling as usual. Losing to his brother and listening to him tell everyone enraged him to the point of violence.
"You always stall when I'm going to win. Just give up." Eyvindr picked his nose and tried to wipe the bugger on Gungnir's pants.
"Try that again..."
"Take your turn!"
Beowulf was a favorite digi-game of theirs, a favorite for just about everyone who had ever been or ever was in the military. It was designed to be addictive, and Gungnir loved to play. The game took up Gungnir's entire living room floor, and piles of empty ale cans took up the side of the room.
"I'm not stalling, I'm thinking." He stared across the wasteland at his brother's army. His brother's paradropping special air service was going to land on his weakened HQ section and eviscerate them. And the odds of coming back from his untenable positions was remote. Eyvindr had pressed the middle with eight MECHA-3's, and Gungnir threw everything at the breach. His entire line was being ripped apart like the skin of a garparl.
"Your mind wasn't in the game," Eyvindr complained, nulling out Warlords of the Apocalypse.
"I have my reasons. Montavon has sent me some new data on a site in St. George of all places and the data lines up with what I was told in the market. Sounds like a gold mine. Pre-Times loot. One guy talked about finding a passage leading to an Underworld city. They called it Site 13."
"When was this?" Eyvindr placed the digi-game on the shelf next to Gungnir's other war games.
"Last weekend."
"Doesn't surprise me. Our greatest enemy holds the most secrets. They say the whole region was once part of something much greater." Eyvindr cracked open a can, slurping foam down and taking a long drink.
"Well, this discovery is amazing! This pick will probably end up being my best one if I can stealth in without getting myself killed. They said the area is well inside the border. I might not even get in by myself. If the gods present me with someone else to go with me, I'll listen, but I'm not going to go around asking."
"Hey, didn't you have a few Pre-Times books on your shelves?" He gestured with his can.
"Yeah, of course, I collect them when I can. They're expensive. Usually, the demonic tradesmen won't deal in just metal. They want to trade, but I'm not going to carry a bunch of stuff with me unless I'm in my buggy. Hopefully, they can repair the thing."
"You've scratched off the name of this one? It looks burnt. What's this book about?" Eyvindr asked. He reached up and pulled the book from the shelf, blew the dust off, and cracked it open. And as he did, Gungnir locked in place, unable to speak, move, or change anything around him other than the air he breathed. His heart and pulse slowed, and his eye lids became lead.
Gungnir tried to speak but his throat felt like someone had clamped his vocal cords, and he grabbed his neck trying to say something to make him put the tome back.
"So what is all this?" His brother asked, flipping through the pages.
The room changed. Something moved out of the corner of his eye, and he couldn't turn to look at it. He pushed against the block of air he couldn't escape from. His muscles strained to no effect. He brought back the memory of his Uruz chant, and he pushed it out into reality. Nothing happened, and he felt more powerless now than a second ago. He tried for another rune, but he became confused. Something wet and smooth dragged across his face, and he tilted his eyes to his brother and the book whose title must not be spoken. What had that lizard feral given him?
"The pages are full. Lines of tiny code I can't read. A few maps. Instruction manuals. And this..." Eyvindr unfolded a page with strange writing on the front. Gungnir knew the symbols inside were thick and looked like futuristic Saxon runes but curvier and rounder. They were stamped in red and orange and made his mind sick. Why wasn't his brother affected? "Who's Captain Johann Edward Rex? Hey, what's wrong with you?"
When Eyvindr dropped the tome, Gungnir stumbled forward, knocking his head on an old glass frame, shattering it. He let loose a choice Roman hate speech word as blood dripped from the gash in his head. His memories began to disintegrate.
"I'll get something for that."
"Below the sink in a yellow box. There should be a large label on it that says, 'Emergency,'"
"This big yellow thing?"
"Yes, you moron. You see another medikit? Hurry up! My head is bleeding! Bring it in and I'll show you what to do."
Eyvindr treated the head wound but didn't ask about what happened. Gungnir gingerly picked up the book and put it back on the shelf.
His brother's voice softened. "Pre-Times, isn't it?"
"I don't know. Could be a warning. I got it last time I was out. This feral gave the book to me in the market I told you about." Gungnir pulled another two ales and gave one to his brother.
"A warning? About what? From whom?"
"If I knew, I'd handle the problem." He downed half his can and burped. "I don't know what the Hel it is, but I've been obsessed with finding out."
"What do you mean?" Eyvindr looked back at the bookshelf as if it were the Well of Wyrd holding the secrets of the universe.
"I mean I don't think it wants to be talked about. I read a name next to mine. Captain Johann Edward Rex. I'm next to his." He drank down the rest of the can and opened a new one. "Others are mentioned. No pictures, but extensive data is written about each person, except me. All of it illegible. I could sort of make out a few things like my place of birth, my height and so on, but everything else is written in a foreign language I haven't seen before."
"Mind if I take a look again?" He turned to the bookshelf and stopped when Gungnir pushed him.
"Yes, I mind. You looked already, and see what happened? You once asked me a long time ago about my privacy, remember?" He wanted to slap him, and if Eyvindr had been anyone else, he would have.
"You don't like people poking around in your private life. You said it makes you weak."
"Very good. Now back away and let me give you something more your style." Gungnir put the book back on the shelf and pulled something with a pink cover, and with a flick of th
e wrist, he flung the book to his brother who caught it in mid-air.
He opened it and started thumbing through the pages, his eyes getting wider and wider. Eyvindr turned the book on edge and checked the naked woman out for longer than he should have. "This is more of what I'm into. If I started picking, I know I'd become a slaver instead. How many girls have you raped?"
"Stop. You're looking at it too closely. Borrow it if you want, but bring it back. Those women are distinct. Check the title."
"'Gorgeous Women From the Pre-Times.' No kidding?! So, someone found a collection of prints from back then and put them in here?"
"Yes, and it's not meant to be pornographic either. So quit looking at them like they're Red Light Girls. They are our ancestors."
"So what are you going to do about Montavon?"
"Follow up on his lead. He wasn't the only one to tell me about the location. The going won't be like some green op where the location will be empty of the enemy. I'm sure many people are aware of the place now." Gungnir grabbed some Ovr jerky and handed it over.
"What did you say the name was again?"
"Site 13, in Labor's Park. Once I find a few things I can take with me, I'm going to do as much collateral damage as possible and evac out of there. I have a strong suspicion that the place is going to be a tech vault. After I bring those machines back, I'll set you up a business, buy a bigger house for you, and make sure mom is taken care of."
Eyvindr pulled down Hastings, another one of their favorites. "I call dibs on the MECHA's."
"Of course you do."
33 Winter War
D.K.E.
Year 323
Day 103
03:40
2nd Sun Tank Division (For King and Country)
2nd Division Commander: Marshal Richard the Mad
1st Battalion Commander: Duke Phillip Sternwood aka Duke Wood
1st Company Commander: Captain Johann (John) Edward Rex
The room heater blew against John's back, and the fan filled the tent with a low humming sound, soothing him. He got up and took a stroll through the tent, looking at all the precious winter gear lying around without any oversight. Balling his fists, he made a mental list of who was being the most careless. Some troops on the front were without the bare necessities and this amount of apathy was going to get his men killed. Why weren't his other officers managing this section better?
He migrated back to his desk. A telecaster sat on top of his antique wooden desk. John's .50 Remi was holstered on his side. Next to his Xenox telecaster, his lash—always polished to perfection. More lashings were due. That was obvious.
John adjusted the machine, trying to get a better signal, but the storm was brutal and some of the towers had zeroed out. His fingers played with the dials, his other hand twisting counter-clockwise searching out for more power. He found the right frequency, clicked in several quantum codes, and transmitted to the Air Marshal. "How is it going there, sir?" John Rex's hands sweated as he glowered down on his E-Reader. This battle needs to end soon.
"I must tell you, John, the probabilities are all over the place." The frost winds wove through the encampment, murdering morale and discipline. Ice and snow had built up around for hundreds of kilometers, yet for some reason in this 20-kilometer zone, the worst of the weather was ratcheting down and encasing everything in ice. The freeze, combined with the high-speed winds, made this a killing zone all to itself.
"I have nine K-10 bombers readied with incendiaries, and two K-25 escort fighters with one-ton 'agreement makers' and have taken the extra step and added proximity fuses. I gave you what we have, Captain. Best I can do. This op is important. Make all sorties count." Nine bombers. That's a lot of firepower.
He gripped the lash. "Marshal Carville, I cannot thank you enough for your support. It was difficult convincing High Command of the need to commit our reserves as well. Everything is mapped out. You have my bound honor." John smacked his hand.
"By the way, the weather systems predictors are zeroed so I hope the data you provided is accurate. I need my aircraft and pilots brought back to me."
"Well, it is time to win this, sir. This plan... I have done the best with what little information I have and take full responsibility. We must always keep the oath" He hit his hand, harder this time, wanting this battle to end so he could get control of his company. The new recruits were being ordered into the kill zones first while the vets supported them. It was a blood bath, but after the Americans were gone, they had to fight their main enemy, the Saxons, and they were taking severe losses.
"For King and Country..."
"For King and Country, sir."
He killed the telecaster, put the lash down, and stood. So many things would have to transpire for the operation to succeed. His mind went through each possibility, step by step, thinking of anything he might have missed.
The oil painting of King Edward 21st outfaced him with edges of real wood, etched in fine, laser cut religious filigree. On every op, he hung the painting proudly, almost defiantly, above him to remind himself of his purpose. St. George, upon his white steed, curly blond hair, spearing down into the dragon, was the symbol of the truth of the world; truth no one but the St. Georgians would be able to understand.
In a blink, a sergeant burst in. "Captain. It has started."
From out of the corner of John's peripheral vision, a large man, wearing his normal Kingdom Battledress Uniform or KBDU, bearing the rank of 5th Sergeant, came in right behind the sergeant.
"Captain Rex, sir, we have reports of perimeter activity in sector G1, G2, and G4. Reports say two Saxon MECHA-3's have launched a surprise attack on our RJ-16's."
"Damn it!" John put the mic down and pressed a button on the radio, severing the connection. Turning towards the 5th Sergeant, John ordered, "I need all my battalions up and running in 30 seconds. Three zero seconds. Mark." Time ticked, and he tapped his foot. John leveled his voice down so as not to cause him to panic. "I need you to get me a proper radio operator. Summon Tucks. And contact Duke Sternwood over our encrypted network. Tell all of the squadron commanders to mobilize. Go!"
Inside tents, soldiers frantically gathered their equipment and dressed in their thermals. Younger recruits were looking to their bunkmates for help. Others were going about their business of soldiering alone, not needing any assistance. The sirens blared. Boots cracked in the frozen ice and snow. The sun wouldn't rise for hours.
In the motor pool, platoons sprang to life. Most of the soldiers were veterans, and all of them understood their lives could be over at any minute. They lived for the stuff for knowing they could die gave their life meaning.
At the front of all five of 1st Company's platoons, Sergeant Jacob Ross stood firm, ready for action. His ear piece was flooded with intel traffic transmitted from the three combat sites: G1, G2, and G4. His mouth was dry, and he needed his pipe--he had forgotten to grab it on his way here.
More of John's men were assembling on the frozen, black concrete. 1st Platoon had commandeered the adjacent building and was using it as a subcommand bunker and received incoming data streams. Then they were retransmitted and translated from encryption to encryption until used as readable data on the other side.
Inside the subcommand bunker, Sir Gary Truewater watched the funnel of information being related to the central core. "You are clear to transmit. Go ahead. Over." Truewater said.
"This is Lieutenant Aleeton of Reconnaissance Team One, you have two MECHA-2's in route to your position and nine Saxon Thors, approaching from the west. ETA, two minutes. Over."
"Affirmative and confirmed. Keep your channel open, Lieutenant Aleeton." Sir Truewater rose, knocked over his chair, and dashed out of the room, a carrier pigeon relaying vital battlefield information. His face smashed into the freezing cold outside, and his feet cracked down into the icy bleakness as he sprinted towards Sergeant Ross.
"Sergeant Ross! Sergeant Ross! We have incoming. Two MECHA-2's and nine Thors. ETA less than two minu
tes. Bounding from the east."
The motor pool was a sea of activity. Uniformed soldiers from the Military Coalition prepped their vehicles, moved supplies from the old gray colored supply center, and scurried in the morning cold.
Sergeant Ross flew into action, suppressing the Irish berry distilled moonshine he drank last night. "Attention people! I need these vehicles running. All reserve infantry units are to move and take defensive positions around this motor-pool! You!" Ross gestured to a woman no older than 22. "Inform Captain Rex of our situation. Tell him we are going live in less than a minute."
"Yes, Sergeant," the woman bolted away.
The command Regent Mark-10 anti-grav armored personnel assault carrier was the first to hum to life. Commanded by veteran Lieutenant Danforth of the Royal Edwardian Guards, the Regent's true power originated from the commander's excellent understanding of mobile tactical warfare. Inside, the destructive payload of the Regent, 20 soldiers from the 112th Royal Edwardian Infantry Guard Regiment, was prepped and ready to engage.
One sensor operator sat to the rear of the driver monitoring enemy activity through a pair of Sinsii goggles, while two gunners, strapped in their harnesses, mounted heavy Model 1 Ion Cannons.
Each scanned the sky, their sensors looking for enemy activity. Unfortunately, the Saxons had found a way to stealth coat their MECHA-2's, and their sensor data would be useless against them. The Thors—they would see those coming from kilometers away. The armor and firepower would be a difficult challenge for the 1st Company, though everyone in the Division had undergone extensive anti-tank training. But would it be enough?
The Mark-10's spread out, suspended in the air by Pre-Times suspensor anti-grav tech. They fanned further out across the ice, their hulls moving silent through the pre-waking hours. They took it slow, allowing for the Isolation Sensor to search out for signs of the enemy.
Captain John Edward Rex pressed the "Transmit to All" button on the Xenox. "You know what to do. We've been training for this for months. Look to your fellow soldier for support. Do not be afraid. St. George guides us all. Despite our previous losses, today will be different. For we have Marshal Carville's air support to carry us through this battle! Soon, two 1-ton agreement makers will be striking their targets while our bombers will lay waste to their artillery support. We have never had this much air support. He who controls the sky controls the ground below it. Let them bring their MECHA's. Let them run at us while we pulverize them from the air. Let their bodies fall in heaps of bloodied ruins upon our bayonets. We are the rulers of the battlefield for St. George is with us, and nothing can stop us! Praise St. George! For King and Country!
The Arkhe Principle (Book Book 1) Page 22
