Pandora's Redoubt

by James Axler

  Watching in horror, the sentry stared as the shape rolled onto the bridge stretching across a ravine. This trap had never failed. There were two bridges, actually, a slim one just barely large enough for a motorcycle to roll across, then a nice big spacious one built of canvas and hollow pipes. Even the weight of a single man would make the bridge collapse, sending the invaders tumbling into a pit full of iron spikes. It had taken the slaves hours to lay enough planks over the ravine so the lady ward could roll that huge outland machine across the trap.

  Just then, the dark shaped dropped from sight.

  The sentry laughed in victory, then stared as the angular craft rose again, rolling back onto the road and proceeding toward the outer wall of the ville in undiminished speed.

  Snatching the coal oil lantern hanging from a nail in the wall, the sentry blew out the flame and ducked low. From the floor, he reached up and snatched the plastic toolbox on the shelf, hugging it to his chest in an irrational moment of panic.

  Then grim necessity seized him. Fingernails scratching the wax from the joints, the sentry pried loose the lid on the plastic box and ripped it off.

  Nestled inside was a Veri pistol and three flares.

  Stuffing the first fat cartridge into the hollow tube, he shielded his face with an arm, pointed the box into the sky and fired. The pistol thumped loudly, and the flare was blown high into the starry sky. One flare meant strangers, possibly danger.

  It detonated into a brilliant white glare, slowly parachuting downward, riding the wind like a kite. While it was airborne, he had the second flare loaded and launched. Two meant an armed attack, send troops pronto.

  The dark shape rumbled past the kiosk, shaking the walls and making the thatched roof collapse in sections, sending stalks of tar-coated hay everywhere. He stayed in the corner, praying for his life, and the thing moved onward.

  The moment it was past, he shoved a hand out the window and sent off the third flare. It was a signal he had never used before, and had spent his whole adult life hoping not to. It as the signal for disaster, invasion and much much worse.

  Then a blinding flash of light slashed across the kiosk, slicing apart the masonry. A terrible pain seared in his stomach, and he tried for a scream when the grenade in his pocket detonated, blowing his steaming guts across the rubble in a grisly crimson spray.

  AS THE TROOP of armed sec men marched around a corner, J.B. darted from behind a pile of rotting garbage and across the dark street, taking a defensive position.

  He whistled low twice, and the rest of the companions followed him with Krysty on rear guard.

  "These guys aren't too sharp," Mildred commented. "I've seen better guards in hotel lobbies!"

  A dull clanging noise rose from atop the Citadel. Then, softly, a siren started to howl, growing in pitch and volume until its strident scream split the night apart. Lights started coming on in every window of every home, doors burst open and half-dressed men stumbled into the streets, weapons in hands.

  The companions retreated farther into the safety of darkness.

  "They finally know we're here," Krysty said, her pistol steady in a combat grip.

  "Took them long enough to notice," J.B. retorted, one of the homemade sugar bombs held ready, its long fuse dangling like the swing hoist of a petard.

  Cradled in Doc's arms, Shard shook his head.

  "Not for us?" Jak asked.

  The patient winced as Mildred reached over to tighten a bloody bandage. "Invaders," Shard wheezed. "Yule's under attack."

  With both of his longblasters extended like the horns of a bull, Ryan smiled. "Better coverage for us."

  "Chaos is the friend of thieves," Krysty agreed, her hair moving to its own secret rhythm.

  "No," Mildred countered, the expression on her face lost in the shadows. "Remember, the Beast is dead, the Sons destroyed. Who else is tere who would dare attack this fort?"

  "Don't know," Shard replied.

  "Mayhap some new enemy," Doc espoused, slightly shifting the position of the man he carried. "Raiders, mercies. The list of palliards who hate and/or lust after this locale must be nigh infinite."

  Bastard hope so," Ryan muttered, doubtfully eyeing the mounting chaos in the streets. A trio of sec men struggled to roll a black powder cannon into position before the very door they had left only moments ago. Ryan checked the status of his weapons.

  "Forget silent, we're going hard," he announced.

  "Kill on sight. I'm on point. J.B., cover our rear with the bombs. Mildred and Dean, cover Doc and Shard. Something big is happening, something more important than us escaping or a slave rebellion, and I want no part of it."

  THE RANGER ROLLED unstoppable along the road that led to the primitive city. Land mines constantly exploded under its rebuilt treads, causing more smoke and noise than damage. Twice a barrage of glass bottles filled with coal oil smashed onto its bull, covering the patched-together tank with flames. This was unfortunate as it greatly increased the vehicle's visibility, but it did little else. The drones had done their job properly, and while not up to its original standards, the General Electric Ranger Mark LV was functional.

  The Ranger had patrolled the ruins of the city and the desert sands of Ohio, wandering aimlessly, Unable to locate any hint of the unknown invaders who had destroyed it. Then a radio signal began to weakly broadcast from the area ahead. The Ranger's main computer recognized this was a nonmilitary fortress full of civilians. However, if they were assisting the enemy, they were to be considered traitors and dealt with accordingly.

  Bypassing another disguised pit, on the forward vid scanners the Ranger detected a crude wall of tree trunks embedded into the dirt atop a low hill: the outer perimeter of the civilian fortress. Activity bustled along the oak palisade, high probability security personnel preparing weapons. Radar indicated a low percentage of steel, scant iron, absolutely no depleted uranium and no high-energy sources that might power lasers or microwave beamers. Low-tech weapons only, certainly no danger to the adamantine hull of the Mark IV.

  Then a slash of brown erupted from amid the bushes to one side of the road, and the Ranger rocked under a brutal impact, but penetration of the hull wasn't achieved.

  Another copse of bushes trembled, and this time the cameras saw a telephone pole barreling toward the tank. The end was sharpened to a point, and the rear feathered like an arrow. Military records instantly identified such as an arbalest, a medieval antisiege weapon. Cumbersome and slow, requiring a ten-man crew to operate and load it, it was only useful against stationary or unusually large targets.

  All this was done in an electronic microsecond, while the laser turret traversed quickly, but not fast enough, and the pole slammed into the Ranger. The tank shuddered as splinters exploded from the collision. Again, penetration wasn't achieved, couldn't be achieved with this primitive device, but diagnostics showed the rear radar and a vid camera were annihilated. Unacceptable.

  The transformers boosting to full power, the laser cannon traversed in a full circle, pumping out gigawatts of condensed light. The surrounding countryside was set on fire before the computer was satisfled this potential danger was neutralized and proceeded onward.

  SNUG INSIDE an underground bunker cut into the side of the hill, a sec man pressed his face tight against the plastic periscope and tracked the approach of the Beast. The distance was considerable, maybe four hundred yards. Too far at present, but with its current speed, in less than a minute the Beast was going to be utterly destroyed. Wards, heirs and guards for generations had prepared the defensives of Novaville, waiting for the day when the Beast would finally turn its terrible attention to them. Well, this was it and they were ready.

  "Get set," the corporal said, mentally calculating trajectory and speed.

  "Not in range yet," the private stated nervously. "We fire where it will be," the corporal snapped, "not where it is. Distance plus velocity, remember?"

  The private nodded.

  "You got the safety removed?"


  The young guard displayed the iron bar. "She's ready to go."

  "Good." He turned back to the periscope. "Grab the rope and wait for my signal."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Pull early, and I'll have your balls for breakfast."

  In the tiny mirror of the scope, the Beast was still on the access road just passing the first marker. The road to the yule was lined on both sides with stones, certain ones dabbed with different colors of paint and carefully paced off to exact distances so they could serve as target markers. Red for entering the kill zone, yellow for prepare and green for go.

  Maintaining a regular speed, the cannon of the angular machine was rotating steadily, ready to laser-blast anything dangerous. The corporal smirked at the thought. A fat lot of good a laser would do against his weapon! The other defenders might as well go home; this was a done deal.

  "Just a little bit more..." he said.

  The private gripped the rope tighter and braced his boots on the broken bricks set in the dirt flooring.

  "Ready...." The corporal took in a breath and whispered, "Now, Private."

  As hard as possible, the sec man yanked on the rope. It resisted for a split second, then yards of it dropped inside the bunker.

  On the hillside, the rope snaked away, dragging along a stout stick from a large hasp that was connected to a gate in front of a disguised tunnel. The unlocked gate swung open, and a boulder rolled into view, closely followed by dozens more. The avalanche cascaded down the hill, gathering speed and momentum. There were no trees or bushes in the way, every obstacle painstakingly removed decades ago. It had taken hundreds of slaves months of grueling labor to gather the collection of boulders into the pen, the very ground lubricated with their blood as tired bodies got crushed underneath. Tested on several occasions against the Sons of the Knife, the boulders tracked straight and true and they converged on the tank, shaking the ground in their thunderous approach.

  THE FIRST ROCKS smashed into the Ranger, almost tipping the machine onto its side, denting the composite armor and destroying a sensor array. But instead of retreating as expected, the tank boldly charged, dodging around the largest rocks, and the second volley missed it completely. As the last of the boulders rolled across the road and into the forest, the Ranger backtracked their most likely course to the small tunnelin the side of the bill. Infrared sensors found two humans nearby, and it bathed the area with the laser until the grass burst into flame, the soil blackened, the exposed rocks softened and flowed like steaming mud. Muffled screams came from the melting bunker, but soon stopped.

  "THEY FAILED!" shouted a sec man standing on the catwalk inside the wooden palisade of the outer wall.

  On the ground, Sergeant Kissel grunted at the news, but nothing more. Rule number one for any commander was never to show surprise. The men always had to think you knew an event was going to happen and that everything was under control.

  Torches lined the area before the gate, the ground littered with ammo boxes and supplies. The sprawling market of Detail was completely empty of prisoners and totally wide open, granting an invader easy access to reach the inner stone wall and the castle of the ward.

  "Seal the gate!" Kissel ordered in a booming voice.

  With twenty men pushing and swearing, the tremendous portal was firmly shoved into place. Then a stout wooden beam more than a yard thick was slid across the gate and into iron loops on either side. Next, iron bars were rammed into niches set in the cobblestone street and levered up against the stout beam.

  "That should hold it," a private said proudly, pounding it with a fist.

  An older bald man sneered at the youth. "Balls, it'll ram right through."

  "Two feet of oak covered with steel chains?" he cried. "That gate took years to complete!"

  "We're all dead," the bald man said with a sigh, "and you know it."

  Walking closer, Kissel fired from the hip, and the bald man dropped to the ground, gushing blood.

  "Stinking traitor," he spit, holstering his piece. "You there, take his blaster and ammo. You two, shove the body aside. We'll feed him to the scavengers later on. After we kill the Beast!"

  A ragged cry rose from the troops, but it seemed to lack some conviction.

  Kissel cupped hands around his mouth. "Wall sentry," he bellowed, "give me a call!"

  "It's past the red marker!" the man shouted down, binocs to his face. "Took minor damage from the rocks!"

  "Battle stations!" Kissel cried, drawing his blaster.

  Racing to the battlements, the guards amassed along the catwalk, crouching to hide their numbers.

  "Where are the RPGs and recoiless rifles?" a corporal asked, loading his longblaster. "The bazookas, the LAWs?"

  "Back on the main wall."

  "But we need them here to stop the thing!"

  "Go complain to the heirs. All we got is these!" He glared at the black powder rocket he was stuffing into a rusty launcher. Two feet long and made from lead pipe, the homemade rockets were crude and had a tendency to veer wildly in flight, often returning to kill the very men who launched them. Missile post was a punishment detail, not a promotion.

  Plus, the launcher was merely a beehive array of car tailpipes welded together. A score of thick green fuses fed from the end of the corroded steel and were tied together into a single thick tail. A gunner with a magnesium road flare was ready to light the fuses and then run like hell in case the launcher exploded, as so many of them did.

  "It's approaching the yellow marker!" the sentry called out. "Range, two hundred yards!"

  Climbing onto a horse, Kissel rode to the nearest catapult A team of men was tying off the ropes as he galloped closer to the huge contraption.

  "What is the status, Corporal?" Kissel demanded.

  "Ready to go, sir!" the man answered, snapping a salute. "Number one is loaded, two is being loaded."

  "Range is set for...?"

  "One hundred twenty, and one hundred yards."

  He stared at the fresh-faced guard. "Don't miss, lad, these are our best hope now."

  "We'll get the bastard, sir."

  "Passing yellow," the sentry announced, holding the binocs with both hands. "Almost at the green!

  Range, one fifty!"

  Somebody handed Kissel a rifle, and he counted slowly to three. "Open fire!" he commanded.

  Every man on the wall cut loose with their blasters, rifle and pistols, throwing a hail of lead at the tank. And in spite of the darkness and distance, dozens of rounds ricocheted off the armored hull.

  "Wasting ammo," a private muttered, levering in a fresh round.

  "Luring it in closer," a corporal replied, spraying 9 mm Parabellum rounds from his chattering auto-blaster.

  "Ready at the cats!" Kissel shouted, reining in his horse. "Prepare to release!"

  Swords slashed at ropes and the catapult arm jerked upward, slamming into the stop bar and sending the cargo in the basket hurtling high over the wall. Lost in the starry sky, the collection of wooden kegs with hissing fuses rained upon the tank with pinpoint accuracy, and it was coated with booming explosions, the dense smoke masking the effect of the barrage.

  "Reload the catapults! Launch the rockets!" Kissel shouted, and the fuses were lit.

  Spraying sparks and smoke, the rockets streaked away into the night on tails of flame. A few angled toward the woods, one went straight into the ground and detonated in the dirt, another spiraled off to nowhere, but the rest zoomed in straight and pounded the Ranger with satisfying accuracy. A second salvo was released, then a third, as the cheering men on the wall emptied their blasters into the inferno.

  Then out of the smoke rolled the Beast. Every external antenna was removed, radar gone, its video cameras reduced to sparking trash and dangling wires, but the hull wasn't visibly breached. It headed directly for the gate, the laser cannon angling upward and strobing at the palisade.

  Blind, or with their heads on fire, screaming men tumbled off the catwalk and plummeted to the c
old ground.

  IN THE CITADEL. Amanda and Richard raised their heads from studying the map on a table as McGregory entered the audience room.

  "Well?" Amanda snapped. "What's happening out there?"

  "Report. Captain!" Richard barked.

  "The situation is poor, my lord," McGregory said. "The outer defenses have failed. The sec men hit the tank numerous times with rockets and bombs to no real effect Even the boulders did little damage. The guards are preparing to retreat to the slave cottages in Detail and continue fighting from there."

  "Is it through the gate yet?" Amanda asked.

  "Not yet, no. But soon."

  "Acceptable," Richard said, returning his attention to the strategy table. Colored markers of different types and tiny flags covered the map of Novaville. A black box sat prominently near the gate in the wooden palisade.

  "Deputy Ward, you are wrong," McGregory heard himself saying. "I'm duty-bound to tell you that I believe the fight is hopeless unless the guards get those bazookas! Even just one could make all the difference."

  "No," Amanda said, moving a marker from the palisade to the inner stone wall. "Those are for our personal protection."

  Richard shifted another. "We'll destroy the machine in the market square. There's no need to waste precious supplies."

  "I only hope it's enough." McGregory sighed, accepting a cup of wine from a kneeling slave girl.

  "Explain yourself!" Amanda demanded hotly. "Our father, the ward, personally designed the ville defenses."

  "But he hasn't seen this thing, my lady," McGregory said wearily, "and I have."

  Chapter Nineteen

  In ruthless efficiency, Kissel dispatched the last of the screaming men with a pistol and silence returned to the battlefield. The huge wooden gate was pierced in several places by burning holes and the Beast on the other side crashing repeatedly into the resilient bamer. Each attempt bent the crossbar more and more, widening the cracks in the weakening timber. Only the iron locking bars held it in place, and when those went, so would the gate.