The Venusian Gambit

by Michael J. Martinez

  “You stupid little bitch,” Huntington growled. “I’m gonna enjoy beating the shit out of you now.”

  Shaila flipped onto her back to see Huntington over her, her fist already cocked. Without thinking, she rolled away as quick as she could—and toward the gun again. Inches from her head, Huntington’s fist hit the stone floor, hard enough so that Shaila heard something crack. Her opponent’s unearthly howl of pain and rage confirmed it was bone, though Shaila figured she was strong enough to crack stone. Thank God for Anne’s concoction, because if Huntington had been able to see, Shaila would be dead.

  This is so dumb, Shaila thought as she scrambled across the floor on all fours toward the weapon. She felt a hand on her clothes again and swore—Huntington was still strong enough to stop her with only one good hand and managed to claw blindly at her.

  Shaila turned and brought her boot up, catching Huntington across the jaw. Her grip loosened a moment, long enough for Shaila to grab her hand and twist for all her might. She heard a pop and smiled.

  Then Huntington’s other fist—the one that just pummeled stone—slammed into her cheekbone. Shaila’s vision was instantly darkened and blurred, the entire side of her face was lanced with pain.

  But there was no second hit coming. Shaila shook her head to clear it and saw Huntington with a pained, angry look on her face. Her hand was covered in blood, with fingers sticking out at ugly, stomach-churning angles. The former DAEDALUS member tried to cradle her fist with her other hand, but could only use it below her sprained wrist.

  Shaila turned back on all fours and started scrambling for the gun again, even as the floor of the room seemed to pitch under her in a wave of disorientation and nausea. Concussion, Shaila’s rational brain told her. Not good. Get the gun.

  She crawled past Stephane’s body—still breathing? Still breathing—and clambered up to the AK-740.

  Then a buckled shoe stepped on it.

  She looked up and saw Greene standing over her, smiling his infuriating holovision smile.

  “Valiant effort,” he said. “The blindness thing was cool. Didn’t last very long, though.”

  He reached down, grabbed her by the scruff of her coverall…and threw her.

  Five meters later, she hit the floor, knocking Weatherby over.

  “Oh, hell,” Shaila muttered, then winced. Easily a couple cracked ribs, plus she landed on her left elbow, which was ablaze with pain and likely useless. “Weatherby?”

  The admiral looked up to see a zombie pointing his musket at them. Anne had been fighting another, but saw what had happened and dropped her bayonet in supplication.

  “A good try, but not enough,” Weatherby said softly, and with pain. Shaila could see blood coming from his right shoulder. “I suppose he wasn’t quite busy.”

  Greene, meanwhile, picked up the gun, then went back to his work. He hissed something in that strange language and the zombies motioned for Weatherby and Shaila to get up against the wall. A moment later, Anne and Berthollet—who had avoided fighting at all—joined them.

  Huntington staggered over to Greene and stood in front of the pool. “She got me good. Not sure I’m going to be much more help here.”

  Greene looked up. “You did well. When Althotas arrives and the floodgates open, you’ll get a better body. You ready?”

  Huntington nodded.

  Without so much as a facial tic, Greene shot her in the chest. She keeled over into the pool.

  And the dark, shining water began to roil.

  At that moment, Finch slowly sat up. His skin was white as snow, but covered in a thin, oily film that matted his hair to his head. His eyes, blinking as though he had just awakened, shone with light.

  “It is done,” he said to Greene, a thick black mist trickling out as he spoke. “Althotas awaits.”

  CHAPTER 28

  January 30, 2135

  May 29, 1809

  Maria Diaz piloted her V-SEV like a woman possessed, stomping through the masses of living zombies and swinging her mech’s arms and feet wildly. Each step threatened to topple the vehicle, but that was because there was a half-alive body underneath. She had shut off the power alarms several minutes ago—she knew she’d run out of juice long before she ran out of targets.

  The snipers atop the pyramid were now engaged in hand-to-hand combat, as the hordes of possessed zombies quickly scaled the sides of the ziggurat, helping each other up the two-meter high stones. Others were busy moving rubble away from the entrance, and it was these Diaz tried to focus on, if only to give Philip, Elizabeth and the few others she could save just a little more time to live.

  She tried hailing Shaila a few times, but it seemed a handful of enterprising zombies managed to climb the chassis of her V-SEV and were now busy ripping apart anything they could get their withered hands on—including the antenna. Diaz knew it would take more strength than even these bastards had to rip into the cockpit, but they were trying their damnedest anyway. Let ‘em try, she figured. I can stay in here all day.

  Even after the laser gave out, she continued to fight, and accounted for at least fifty additional casualties. She could see the Venusians on her HUD map, their little white lights blinking out far too rapidly as the Corps Éternel blew through them. The little lizards did their best, but for every zombie that went down, at least two Venusians went with them.

  She reached down with the V-SEV’s claw and grabbed a zombie by the head, crushing its skull with ease, while stomping another into the Venusian dirt. Yet they kept coming—at least three hundred remained, and they were highly mobile, elusive and fighting like demons.

  Suddenly, all her readouts went red, and a single message popped up on her HUD. RESERVES SPENT. REFUGE-IN-PLACE ACTIVATED.

  One by one, she heard and felt the V-SEV’s systems shutting down. The controls stopped responding and the vehicle went completely still. Her HUD winked out, followed by all other interior lights. Only one small screen—an ancient LED used for backup—remained active. And all it displayed was the time left before life support would fail: 59 minutes and counting.

  She tried her comm one more time, diverting remaining power to do so. “This is Diaz. To whoever’s listening, my V-SEV went into refuge mode. I’m out of the game. Repeat, my power is gone and I’m no longer able to act. Over.”

  To her surprise, she caught a few snippets of a reply. “Diaz…inside…barricaded in but…coming through the roof…will continue on….”

  It was Philip. Diaz looked up and saw a number of zombies hurtling themselves through the open space on the roof of the pyramid. Others on the ground had found some rope and were beginning to bring it up the side of the pyramid.

  She looked at the LED again. Forty-three minutes now. Apparently the comms drained power fast.

  “Goddammit,” she breathed. “Guess I’m not getting any younger. Or older.”

  She began to manually override the refuge mode in order to pop the hatch. She’d probably die out there, but there were plenty of muskets strewn across the ground, along with spears and a couple of swords.

  The least she could do was take a few more sons of bitches with her.

  Weatherby watched as Anne tried to staunch the bleeding in his shoulder, which had been run through by one of the French revenants—well, former French, as they likely held little allegiance to any country at this point. The awakened undead had paid for the blow with his head, shorn clean off by Weatherby even though he used only a common blade, as his alchemically enhanced sword remained too close to the pool to be retrieved.

  Anne paused a moment to look behind her, and Weatherby followed her gaze to find Greene embracing Finch as though they were long-lost brothers. Perhaps they were.

  “Are you OK?” Greene asked.

  Finch cocked his head in an unsettlingly Finch-like way. “I cannot say. This creature’s dabblings with The Book of the Dead made him a perfect vehicle for the transfer, but he is also strong-willed. He…” Finch paused a moment and cast around blankly. �
�Do we have Venusian extracts around? He was once addicted to them. It might quiet him.”

  Greene shook his head and looked toward the now-roiling pool. “No time. Can you finish this, Lord Rathemas?”

  Finch nodded and walked over to the pool, taking off his coat and kneeling before it. “I can. I’ve waited six thousand years. I shan’t wait any longer.”

  And then Finch opened his mouth and vomited forth a stream of blackness that was something between a liquid and a gas, which fell directly into the pool.

  “What the hell is that?” Shaila asked, her voice slightly slurred. It struck Weatherby as though she may have taken a sharp blow to the head. “What’s he doing?”

  Weatherby looked to Anne, who simply looked distressed. “I haven’t the faintest notion, my love,” she replied to his unasked question. “He is…possessed, yes. And Rathemas is channeling whatever residual darkness Finch’s researches accrued within him. But to what end?”

  Berthollet harrumphed, and Weatherby was astonished that the man could retain his hauteur even in moments such as these. “Isn’t it obvious? The Venusian memory vault preserves the memories of the dead. As such, that pool—linked to all these orbs—is not only a repository of remembrances, but a physical and occult link to the underworld. This fellow,” he added, pointing to Greene, “has found a way to use the book and Tablet to create an additional link to the realm in which Althotas has been exiled.”

  Shaila slumped a bit. “Jailbreak.”

  “Crass, but not inaccurate,” Berthollet confirmed. “This is what we had come here to prevent, so that we might continue to utilize the Corps Éternel without hazard.”

  Weatherby watched as Cagliostro approached Finch, kneeling next to him and placing a grandfatherly hand on his back. “We were all deceived. Whether Cagliostro played you for a fool or is only a turncoat at the end, we are well on course for defeat. Commander Jain, how fare you?”

  Shaila gave him a weak smile. “Ready to go at your order, Admiral.”

  She looked glassy-eyed and was leaning against a wall for support. “Ready” would have to remain subjective if they were to somehow turn the tide.

  “There are but two revenants now,” Anne whispered. “The African woman is gone. We may yet prevail if we can but—”

  A rumble permeated the room, cutting off Anne’s thought. Finch staggered back away from the pool, which now looked to be at a high boil, the dark, shining liquid now overflowing and spattering on the stone floor. Greene quickly scurried to the Emerald Tablet, disconnecting some of the wires, then ran over to The Book of the Dead to do the same. “A little too much,” he shouted over at Finch. “The satellites are feeding more energy than I thought. We might be able to salvage some of the artifacts’ power!”

  Finch held his hands to his head, his eyes screwed shut, grimacing in pain. “Yes… salvage. Well done. Althotas…will…be pleased.”

  Weatherby looked long at his oldest, dearest friend, then over to Anne and Berthollet. “What is it? What ails him?”

  “How should I know?” Berthollet protested. “It’s his own damnable fault.”

  Without thinking, Anne reached over and slapped Berthollet across the face. “Shut up. You, sir, are not helping.” She then studied Finch carefully. “I dare say…he’s in there, Tom. Andrew. He’s in there and I’ll wager he’s fighting this somehow.”

  The rumbling stopped, and a moan could be heard from across the room. Shaila pushed past the revenants and rushed haphazardly toward Stephane, who had begun to awaken. One of the revenants slowly walked toward them, gun raised, while the other remained guarding Weatherby, Anne and Berthollet.

  “Jain!” Weatherby cried. “Don’t!”

  But she wasn’t trying for an attack. She slid to the floor next to Stephane and cradled his head. His hands fluttered about and his eyes remained half-open. But alive he was, and Shaila began to whisper to him gently, stroking his hair. Somehow, the revenants decided not to shoot her, probably because Althotas still wanted them to see whatever was coming next.

  Finch, for his part, simply stood swaying slightly as Greene’s fingers danced over his datapad. “Almost there,” the former physicist said, excitement in his voice. “Power levels are high. Should be any moment now.”

  Then a clawed hand shot upward out of the pool. It was massive, the splayed fingers easily six inches long each, tipped with jagged, wicked barbs. It was covered in the same dark, silvery liquid as the pool, but as the liquid ran downward, Weatherby could see green scales beneath.

  “Althotas,” Weatherby breathed. “We are finished.”

  A second hand thrust upward from the pool, and both began grasping, finally finding purchase at the stony walls. Then the crest of a bulbous head appeared, followed by eyes as black as night itself.

  “My Lord Althotas!” Cagliostro said in a quavering voice, immediately falling to his knees and prostrating himself before the pool. Greene also knelt, but kept one eye upon his datapad, tapping occasionally as needed, while Finch simply swayed more, hugging himself, a look of grim consternation upon his face.

  “I AM FREED,” came a voice from the pool, sounding like a swarm of bees with suddenly found articulation. “I AM FREED!”

  And slowly, with great purpose and dread, Althotas arose from the pool of memories, reborn unto the Known Worlds. His wide eyes sat above a wicked maw, his green, sinewy, scaly limbs pulling himself upward. First one leg, then the other, lifted out of the pool and onto the floor of the chamber with a sickening squelch. And finally he drew himself up to his full height—nine feet tall if an inch, powerfully muscled and inhumanly proportioned. His limbs were long, his torso slight, but there was no doubt as to his physical power.

  Althotas scanned the room, looking down upon the Emerald Tablet and The Book of the Dead with a smile. “THE SEEDS OF MY AWAKENING,” he said. “WHO HAS BROUGHT THEM FORTH?”

  Greene finally put his datapad down and stepped forward, taking Finch’s arm and bringing him along. “We have, Lord Althotas. I am your humble servant, while here is Rathemas, your most trusted lieutenant!” Greene said. “We hope you find pleasure in our working.”

  Althotas surveyed Finch closely, even crouching down to look him in the eye. “YOU ARE UNWELL, FAVORED ONE.”

  Finch nodded. “This vessel…powerful…I…my Lord…” Finch’s trembling and swaying worsened. “Help me.”

  Althotas simply grinned. “THIS IS BUT A MINOR TEST. YOU CAN DEFEAT A MERE HUMAN.” He then turned toward the captives in the room. “AS FOR YOU, YOU HAVE ALL FAILED.”

  Weatherby stood tall, but found he had no response, for the mere presence of the Martian warlord was the proof of his words. To his left, Weatherby heard Shaila sob. Show strength, he thought, but when he turned toward her, he saw her eyes boring into him, even though her face was tear-streaked. She then glanced ever so briefly to her side, where the powerful firearm lay but six or seven feet away from her and Stephane.

  Strong indeed.

  “While I have breath, I will fight you, creature!” Weatherby said, emboldened. All eyes in the room now turned to him. “Your days are long past. Now is the time of Mankind, and we shall not give it up so easily!”

  Greene rushed forward with a look of rage and struck Weatherby across the face. “Show some respect!” he thundered. “You’ve lost! Know when you’ve been beaten!”

  Anne crouched over Weatherby, who had fallen backward under the onslaught, and he immediately saw the question in her eyes through the pain in his jaw. He nodded slightly, and she wheeled around to face Greene. “You, sir, are a monster and a coward both!” And she lashed out, catching him in the nose. A crunch was heard, and her hand came away bloody. “We shall bow before no one, Man or Martian!”

  Greene raised his hand a second time, but was stopped by a metallic click at the other side of the room. He turned—and saw Shaila holding the firearm. But it was not pointed at him.

  It was pointed at Althotas.

  “Go back to Hell, you so
n of a bitch.”

  She fired.

  Dozens of bullets lanced into the Martian warlord, prompting an otherworldly scream of pain, like nothing short of the wail of a thousand damned souls. Where the bullets landed, splotches of yellow blood appeared on the creature.

  But despite being struck by at least a score of bullets, Althotas was able to keep his feet—and turned toward Shaila with an inarticulate scream of rage.

  Not enough, Weatherby thought. And then he saw the revenant nearest him, his alchemical blade in a scabbard at his belt. Immediately, Weatherby lashed out with all his might, shoving the creature to the ground and grasping the hilt, pulling for all he was worth. The revenant clawed and punched at him in a flurry, but Weatherby managed to fall backward—with the blade in his hand.

  A moment later, the revenant’s head fell to the floor.

  Shaila, meanwhile, continued to pour bullets into Althotas, and while the Martian staggered, he continued to push forward toward her. Weatherby saw Greene charge, unseen by her. The admiral moved to intercept him, but was tackled by the other revenant, shoved to the floor and nearly stabbed by the creature’s bayonet—which Weatherby sliced in half before it found his heart. He shoved the revenant off him and neatly cleaved its head from its shoulders.

  Weatherby turned and saw that Greene had staggered and fallen—Stephane had grasped his ankle and twisted. Finally catching a glimpse of him, Shaila briefly turned her gun in Greene’s direction. He stopped moving almost instantly.

  But that allowed Althotas to get close enough to swing at Shaila, who had to fall backward to avoid the Martian’s claws—claws that were poisoned, Weatherby remembered. The admiral clambered to his feet and rushed forward.

  Then Finch stepped in front of him. In his hands was The Book of the Dead.