The Stars Like Ice (The Star Sojourner Series Book 8)

by Jean Kilczer

  “They don't end, Sarge, we just go someplace else.”

  “I'll never understand that.”

  “Neither do I.”

  We peered into the alleyway. There were no Cultists in sight.

  “Maybe you'll get to blow up the whole damned building,” I said, “as in really damned.”

  We trotted to the warehouse and went inside.

  “Maybe with the lord and master still in it,” Sarge said.

  “One can only hope.”

  Sarge glanced out a rear window. “After we blow it, we go in and take out any survivors.”

  “You mean as in kill them?”

  “I don't fucking mean as in kiss them.”

  “Can't we just take prisoners? Do you really want a blood bath?”

  “Maybe you haven't noticed, cupcake,” he opened a box and rummaged inside, “but there ain't no governments to speak of on this ice hell they call a world.” He pulled out a package of toilet paper. “All the comforts of home.”

  There were piles of boxes and stacked crates.

  “So where you going to keep prisoners?” he asked, “and who's going to feed them? You want the job?”

  “We could transport them to Alpha,” I said.

  “Their jails are already overflowing with convicts from Alliance worlds. You think they're going to put out the welcome mat for these scuds?”

  “It just doesn't seem right to kill people who are no longer fighting.”

  “Sorry it disturbs your sensibilities.” He jerked a thumb toward the torture chamber. “What do you think they'll do to us if the tables get turned? There's room on that post for a couple of human skins.”

  We hunkered down behind the crates as two Cultists walked past the window.

  “Attila,” Sarge said into his comlink, “change of plans. Do not enter the compound. Understood?”

  “I hear you, Sarge,” Attila answered, “but I don't get it. Up till now you wanted us to spread wings.”

  “Listen up, especially you tags inside the compound. We hide until dark, then we find escape routes out of here. When we're all past the walls, and the Cultists are inside, just waiting for our people to engage them on their own turf, I bring the whole fucking works down on their heads. Then we go in for mop-up. And all before dinner. Any questions?”

  “Sarge.” the voice was high, almost feminine.

  “That you, Kickstart?”

  “Yeah. We got us a small problem.”

  “Like?”

  “Like we're holed up in the ammo tent, and the Cults are all around us.”

  “You and Tattoo?”

  “And Hump and Dump. The scuds been searching all the buildings and tents. Just a matter of time before they hit this one.”

  “Hold on, Kick.” Sarge turned to me. “What say we cause a little diversion and give those tags a chance to go over the wall?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  He checked his stingler for hot. “A crossfire. You green?”

  I checked the battery light again on my stingler. "Yeah, I got an extra battery, too.

  “Hey, Kick,” Sarge said into the link, “can you cut an opening for yourselves in the back of the tent?”

  “It's hypalon, Sarge,” Kickstart said, his voice getting even higher. “Inflated. The air cell would rupture. Big bang. I think they'd notice.”

  “Hold on, Kick.” Sarge exhaled a long breath. “Jules, find a window facing the ammo tent and keep your link open. Kickstart, wait for my signal, then burn the back of the tent open and head for the wall.”

  He pocketed the comlink. “We've got to keep moving. The scuds can't decipher our scrambled messages, but they know we're transmitting and they'll target us sooner or later.”

  “So let's do something sooner.”

  “Yeah. At my signal, fire at any Cults on your side of the tent.”

  “Where will you be?” I asked.

  “On the other side. I hope. We'll make the bastards run for cover and give our tags a chance to escape.”

  “Sounds good for them. Not so good for us.” I stood up and went to the door. “Let's do it.”

  I opened the door a crack and peered outside. The wall was right behind us. We could've gone over it, but neither of us considered abandoning the four tags in the tent. There was one Cultist, not facing us. I ran to the church building and inside. Sarge ran along the wall, behind tents and a stack of equipment.

  I closed the door quietly and found a window in the torture chamber that overlooked the ammo tent. I think even Cultists avoided this death room if they could. Non-tels can sometimes feel more than hear the anguished cries of kwaiis tortured to death. If I lowered my shields, I could be swept away with them into geth state.

  Great Mind, be with us now, I sent, and opened the window. This chamber of horrors could use some fresh air, and a team of interior decorators.

  The wails of tortured kwaiis assaulted me again. All is well, I sent. Go with Great Mind. I wondered if I'd soon be joining them.

  “Let's do it,” Sarge said in my comlink.

  “What? Oh, OK.”

  “Attila,” Sarge said, “four of our people are preparing to escape over the back wall. Send two jeeps around to pick them up, and watch out for the Cult hovair!”

  “On our way,” Attila sent.

  Two Cultists approached the ammo tent, while others searched a row of ice huts.

  “I'm sorry,” I whispered, and fired at one who was unholstering his weapon.

  He dropped it, clutched his chest and screamed. The other one grabbed him as he fell. A hot beam ripped through his neck. Sarge had fired. He went down silently and lay beside his companion. His lifeblood poured into snow.

  “Kick!” Sarge called through the comlink, “go. Now!”

  A blast like a great balloon exploding tore open the back of the ammo tent. Shreds of hypalon drifted like soft shrapnel.

  “Oh, no!” The tent leaned and collapsed.

  A group of Cultists ran toward it as Kick and Tattoo crawled out. Hump and Dump were right behind them. They ran for the wall and leaped over it, all but Kickstart, whose short legs did not carry him over. Tall Tattoo Jones reached back and dragged Kickstart over by his jacket. I wanted to run, too, but my job was to cover their asses.

  I fired at the lead Cultist, who was closing on our four tags. He grabbed his left forearm and howled. Smoke rose between the stubby fingers of his forepaw.

  Time to leave, as some Cultists headed for the torture chamber entrance, firing at the window as they came.

  I heard the sound of jeeps as I ran to the chamber's back door, threw it open and went into…a closet.

  “Oh shit!”

  I closed the door behind me as the front door slammed open.

  Voices.

  “Lord Aburra wants that bottom feeder taken alive!”

  No way, I thought and gripped my stingler tighter. No fucking way.

  Use your tel, Spirit sent.

  Spirit? How many are there?

  Four. Spin a powerful ball of energy and throw it. Now! Or never.

  I closed my eyes, touched my forehead with my free hand, and conjured a red twister. I drew on my body's energy and spun the devil whirlwind faster. It grew, feeding on my reserves, burning brain cells. I gritted my teeth against the headache that constricted my skull like a band of wet rawhide around my temples.

  When the beast of my creation threatened to consume my own thoughts, I threw it with all the force I could muster. He's not in here, I sent. He would be stupid to remain in this room. Let us search the other rooms. He's not in here.

  I moaned softly and held my head with my free hand. If they opened this door, I would not try to kill them all. I'd never make it before they fired. I raised the stingler to my head. "I would kill only myself.

  “He can't be in here,” a Cultist said dully.

  “Yes,” another answered. “He would be stupid to remain in here.”

  “I don't like it in here,” a third
commented. “Let's search somewhere else.”

  “But…” the fourth exclaimed, “he might be hiding…”

  I quickly conjured a small energy ball and threw it at the mind of the speaker. No, I sent, he would not be hiding in here.

  “I think we should search somewhere else,” the speaker told his companions in a monotone.

  Their claws clicked on the ice floor, then I heard the creaky door open and close.

  I looked at the weapon in my hand and felt cold beyond the numbing climate of this world.

  I was shaky as I stood up, opened the door, went to the exterior door and peeked outside. A snowstorm! Visibility was about five feet.

  Thank you, Great Mind!

  And thank your guardian angel, Spirit sent.

  You sent the snowfall?

  I am no angel, my Terran friend. No, it took one who is more kind, more compassionate, and more powerful than I.

  Thank you, Syl 'Via, I sent.

  You are welcome, cupcake.

  I felt her chuckle and gritted my teeth.

  Stay safe, child of Terra, she sent.

  They broke the link.

  “I'll try.” I stepped out into the comforting blizzard.

  I dared not go over the wall. The Cultists knew a team of mercs was here. By now, they'd have patrols outside the walls. The great expanse of snow-covered terrain, and a storm that could be penetrated with infra-reds on jeeps and their hovair, would show them any movement away from the wall. Ironically, I was safer inside the keep.

  The headache was almost gone. I trotted to the back of the church. “Sarge,” I whispered into the comlink, “where are you now?”

  “Where are you? I tried to contact you.”

  “Oh, the comlink was in my pocket. I was busy trying not to get captured. Sarge…they want to take us alive.”

  “Yeah, I know. With this storm brewing, I told our six tags to make their way to the burned-down gate, and make a dash for our troops.”

  “What about the Cult hovair? Anybody moving away from the keep will be targeted and burned.”

  “Our hovair is in a dogfight with their craft. Can you make it to the front gate?”

  “I'm sure going to try.”

  “This storm is a friggin' Godsend.”

  More than you know, I thought. “Yeah. Over and out.”

  The snowfall thickened and I had to feel my way along the church wall as I moved toward the burned front gate.

  Syl 'Via, I sent, can you lighten the special effects? I'm going to need a seeing-eye dog if this keeps up.

  I have not perfected that aspect of long-distance telekinesis, she sent. The clouds are just fluff. Difficult to move.

  OK, I sent and hit a flying buttress formed from ice.

  “Damn!” I held my forehead.

  “Who said that?” a gravelly voice called through the storm. “Are you a brother?”

  “Yes, a brother.” I tried to imitate the gravelly voice and the Vegan accent.

  “Then come closer to me, my brethren. This demon storm has blinded me.”

  “I can't see you either, brother.” I held my stingler extended in both hands.

  “Follow my voice. Yay, though I be sent by the Ten Sacred Gods to cleanse the land of heathens and their spawn, and though I be master of all I survey, I am humble before my gods, and this goddamn storm!”

  “Lord Aburra?” I said on a hunch.

  “I am your Lord Aburra on high. Praise be, what is your name, brother, for I know all the names of my brethren, even the sainted ones who gave their lives obeying the gods through me.”

  “I am a new convert, my great lord. I will come to you.”

  Silence.

  “My lord?” I said. “Guide me with your words, that I may find you.”

  Silence.

  I swept a hot beam in a circular path around myself and waited for his cry of pain.

  Silence.

  A flash of silver to my left. A huge Slattie materialized out of the screen of snow. Broad in his shoulders and hips as he rose to his hind legs from behind a buttress, he towered over me. A red cape swirled at his back, a golden band fluttered from his right shoulder. Lord Aburra advanced, wearing a mirrored breastplate, and a helmet that covered his snout.

  I backed up and searched for a chink in armor that made laser beams just bounce off. I hit the church wall. He swung and sent my stingler spinning and lost in the shroud of snow.

  “I want you,” he growled and grabbed my wrist in a crushing hold. “I want you alive.”

  He lifted me by my wrist and slammed me into the church wall. I yelled. The falling snow and Aburra blurred as pain raced across my head and back.

  I gritted my teeth, focused, and kicked him hard in his groin. A sharp pain ran up my foot. His crotch was also armored.

  “Oh, the plans I have for you,” he whispered, close to my face, and shook me by my wrist. His breath had a fishy smell.

  My wrist burned from being stretched as he held me off the ground. “Let go, you bastard!” I lifted his visor and reached inside to gouge his eyes. He grabbed my other wrist.

  “Do you have any more tricks, human?”

  “Just one,” I squeezed out and conjured a fireball behind my forehead, then narrowed it to a searing blade. I think it burned more of my own brain cells but it was a knife that would slice Aburra's brainstem and kill him where he stood.

  His eyes widened and I saw fear twitch back his long, pink lips. The crotefucker was a sensitive and knew what I was doing. He dropped me as I threw the death-blow and I missed his brain.

  I was on my hands and knees, fighting pain to get to my feet. I saw him swing back his metal-booted foot to kick me. I grabbed his other leg and yanked with all the strength left in me. He crashed to the ground with the sound of mirrors cracking.

  I staggered to my feet and felt in the snow for my stingler. Too late. He was rearing up on his hind legs.

  I heard him growl behind me as I ran toward what I hoped was the burned gate. I probed for his thoughts. No, he wasn't following.

  Syl 'Via must be moving the clouds, I thought as the snowfall thinned and visibility increased.

  Not I, she sent. The clouds have shed their castles.

  Sometimes, Spirit sent, she waxes poetic.

  Why not? I sent and ran.

  Golden rays of sunlight burned through the fluttering white curtain of snow and lent their chips of light to the ice wall. Why not?

  The gate lay ahead, its shape defined by snow. I ran to it while falling snow still shielded me, leaped the gate and was out of the keep. The two hovairs whined overhead. Hot flashes of powerful laser beams streaked the white sky.

  A jeep materialized out of the blanket of snow and screeched to a halt near me.

  “Need a ride, Superstar?” Attila winked. Sarge sat in the back.

  I exhaled a deep breath. “Is your meter running?”

  * * *

  “I almost had him,” I told Sarge as Attila drove to the main body of the troops, not far from the wall.

  “So why didn't you?” Sarge asked.

  “Because he had me.”

  “Too bad.”

  I sat back. “Did the six other tags make it out?”

  “Five did.”

  “Oh. And the sixth?”

  “Dead. Roper. He was a good man.”

  “Sorry. What now?”

  “Now I blow it.” He took the trigger from a pocket and studied it.

  The keep, from this distance, was a fantasy of swirling ice structures girdled by the wall. “Seems almost a shame,” I said.

  “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.” Sarge quoted and pushed the button.

  Ice towers exploded. For a flick in time, they hung in the air like a shaken jigsaw puzzle.

  Castles. I thought of Syl 'Via's phrase. They crashed down and only the tops of ice mounds were visible behind the wall, like glaciers showing their peaks.

  We were too far to hear the screams of the dying, but
close enough for me to hear the cries of fleeing kwaiis within my mind. The dead don't always know they're dead, if death is sudden.

  I bowed my head, closed my eyes, but kept my shields up. Fear not, my brothers. Go with Great Mind. He loves us all. The wails diminished. I hoped Aburra was among the dead.

  “Gave them a sending-off party, did you?” Sarge asked.

  “Just helped them on their way.”

  Flames shot up from the keep. Probably broken pipes. Some ice mounds disappeared below the wall, melting back to water.

  “Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,” I finished the poem for Sarge, “the lone and level snows stretch far away.”

  “It's supposed to be sands,” he said.

  “You see sands?”

  He put his arm around the back of my seat. “I love it when you get poetic, cupcake.”

  Attila chuckled.

  “Find yourself another girlfriend, Sarge. I'm taken.”

  “In fact,” Attila pointed, “here she comes now.”

  “Sophia?” I watched a jeep approach through the screen of snow.

  “And your team.” Sarge sat back and stroked his beard. “The storm's almost over. Time for mop-up.”

  I felt sick at the thought of killing the wounded and the defeated. What of Quirrel? “Sarge?”

  “Don't say it! I don't like it either, but it's got to be done.”

  “Could you tell your men not to kill Quirrel? He's only a cook.”

  “Your cook caused the death of Ropper, when he led him to a group of waiting Cults. He's already dead.” Sarge took out his comlink. “Listen up,” he said into it, “it's mop-up time.”

  I probed the approaching jeep and touched on Sophia's mind.

  She was frightened, for me, I think. She was angry, at me, I think. She wanted my arms around her. So did I.

  Attila stopped and I strode toward the jeep as it pulled up.

  Bat waved from the driver's seat. I waved back at him and Joe, in the passenger's seat, and Chancey, Huff, and Sophia, in the back seats.

  Sophia and Huff got out. I think the others wanted to give me and Sophia some private time. Not so Huff, who came bounding toward me. I braced myself, and protected my right side. My ribs were still sore.

  He ran past Sophia, skidded in the snow, and tumbled into me. We both went down. I heard Chancey laugh.