The IX

by Andrew P. Weston

  He checked behind. Mount Caglioso dominated the skyline, looking exactly as it had an hour ago. Huge, overwhelming, and of no use at all.

  Bloody temperature extremes.

  He turned to his optio, Claudius Vergilius. “Claudius. Assign archers to the roving pickets and dispatch a stick of riders along the highway until they make contact with Tiberius and his contingent. I know they’re heavily laden with as much ore and equipment as they can carry, but this is getting ridiculous. We’ll be sitting ducks out here if anything happens, and won’t have the option of making a run for it.”

  “Right away, Sir.”

  As Claudius set about organizing the men, Flavius recapped the different phases of the day’s exercise. Doing so made him appreciate how essential it was for everyone to play their part and be on time. Casting his eyes heavenward, he noted the milk-white disc of Se’ochan, Arden’s moon, riding high in the sky.

  That’s so odd. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing the moon during the day. But I keep forgetting, conditions are perfect here for that.

  His reflection reminded him of another important phase currently underway. He glanced at the moon again. I wonder if they’re having more fun than I am?

  *

  Ephraim Miller kept a careful eye on Asa Montgomery and Angela Brogan’s vital signs. The AI mind-mesh interface they were hooked into was an extremely sophisticated piece of kit. Unlike the training simulators they had used, or the simplified models fitted aboard the Promulus or Tarion Star, these were designed to operate a five hundred thousand long ton deep space cruiser.

  “How’s it going, guys?” he asked.

  “A little disorienting,” Asa replied. “I have access to the inter-solar system, aqua and deep space rip-drives. It’s as if I’m within the internal schematics of each respective engine chamber. I’ve managed to initiate a full diagnostic to see how we stand, and if there’ll be any tinkering to do to bring this baby up to operational status.”

  “Excellent. Well done. Let me know when you’ve managed to initiate a full core override. Then we’ll get the rest of our pilots up here for a little one-on-one with their new plaything.”

  “Roger that.”

  “And talking of pilots,” Ephraim continued, “Angela? How are you enjoying your introduction to the Arch of Winter?”

  “Bloody hell!” she squealed. “I always thought diamonds were a girl’s best friend, but this? It’s . . . it’s orgasmic. Every present you can think of under the Christmas tree orgasmic.”

  Heads on the command deck turned in surprise. Beside her, Asa almost choked, then burst out laughing.

  “Er . . . thank you for that. Not quite the explanation I was looking for, but succinct enough to convey the depth of your meaning.”

  Ephraim was perturbed to see almost everyone’s shoulders shaking in poorly concealed mirth. Children! Pressing quickly on, he added, “Would you be so kind as to restrict your comments to those I can use to direct the technicians? You know. Those lesser mortals who will be preparing the Arch of Winter, and making her flight ready?”

  “Of course. I apologize. But for a pilot, this is ambrosia. Like being able to fly yourself. The network meshes with you and connects on a level I’ve never dreamed of. Although it’s on safety, I only have to think of a function or a command and that particular subroutine enlarges within the neural interface. The others are still there, but operating in the background. I’ve been practicing to see how many systems I can manage at once, and it’s quite overwhelming and fatiguing, I can tell you.”

  “Will it be manageable in the timeframe we’re looking at?”

  “For basic maneuvers? Yes. Although I can see now why there are two main chairs. Essentially, the Ardenese operated a buddy system, like we did. Helmsman and navigator. The captain maintains an overview through his link, and is able to issue commands and basically keep tabs on what’s occurring where in his ship. But the pilots have to manage some pretty complex mediums. So they split the workload. The sooner we get our guys familiarized, the better.”

  “And what about the onboard AI?”

  “I can answer that,” Asa interjected. “Sorry to butt in, but that was one of the programs I came across as I was working my way through the startup sequencers. It looks like the captain assigned her to maintain engine integrity when they abandoned ship. She’s the one who manipulated the magnetic resonance chamber protecting the core to produce the dampening field surrounding us.”

  “She?”

  “Yup. They gave her a gender . . . and a name. Serovai. It’s based on the Ardenese word for security.”

  Amazing! “Well, I feel safer already. Please carry on, both of you.”

  Ephraim pottered about the deck for a few moments, and could plainly see everyone else was also hard at work. He checked his watch. Amazing indeed. We’re well ahead of schedule. I’ll give it another half hour before I call for the Tarion Star to join us with the next contingent.

  *

  Jake Rixton was growing increasingly anxious.

  Twice now, his patrols had returned without having encountered a single grunt. On the first occasion, he hadn’t been too concerned. It was a huge facility after all, and when the Horde slept, they liked to congregate in confined, well protected places. There were many such locations scattered about the spaceport and it would take all day to check them out. So while he didn’t have time to examine every square inch of their target, he had been concentrating on areas of known infestation.

  Radio reports had confirmed that, as usual, a whole mob of their enemy was assailing the wall back at Rhomane, a ritual they practiced on a daily basis from sunup to sundown.

  So, they’re about. But why not here?

  He watched as both sections came back at virtually the same time, empty-handed again. They reined in and looked about, confusion on their faces.

  That’s just under three hours on site without contact.

  “Sergeant Williams. Get on the radio to Boleni Heights, will you? Update them as to our situation and lack of Horde activity. Then ask to speak with Mark Stevens. Tell him I want a personal chat.”

  “On it now, Sir.”

  Jake addressed his platoon while contact was being established. “Men, I don’t know about you, but I don’t like coming this far with nothing to show for it. By all accounts, this is the quietest it’s ever been out here, and while I would normally enjoy that . . . it doesn’t sit right in my stomach.”

  “What are we gonna do, Sir?” Corporal Spencer chipped in. “Go hunting?”

  “More like fishing. Why should we put ourselves out when they obviously don’t want to play? There are three or four hours of good sunlight left. So I propose we take the long route home. South, through the starport itself, then we’ll cut east around the lower slopes of Mount Boleni. You never know, we could get lucky.”

  “Mark Stevens on the line for you, Sir,” Sergeant Williams advised.

  “Thank you.” Jake took the com-set from his colleague and trotted several yards to one side. Lowering his voice, he said, “Mark? Can you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear, Jake. Go ahead.”

  “Look, I need your help. I know we’re supposed to remain covert until the time comes for our own evacuation, but there’s something not quite right out here. In a minute, I’ll be leading 1st Platoon on a patrol through the facility itself. That’ll take a couple of hours. Then we’ll swing around the ass end of Boleni Heights and approach the lab from the opposite direction. In the meantime, I was wondering if you could use your influence to get us a squadron of flyers in the air?”

  “Sounds interesting. Why do you need them?”

  “Well, I was thinking . . .”

  *

  The wavy, disjointed blobs they had been studying for the last fifteen minutes gradually clarified into recognizable profiles.

  At last! Turning to his optio, Flavius delivered such a hearty slap on the back it almost took the man out of his saddle.

 
“Excuse my exuberance,” he said, “but things have dragged on for so long, I thought we’d never see the end of this damned road.”

  A voice from somewhere in front called, “Riders!”

  Flavius looked back down the highway at the approaching knot of horsemen, and his face broke into a wide grin. “Ha! Look, Claudius. I’d recognize those flapping arms anywhere. Do you see how he looks like a chicken trying to escape the slaughterhouse?”

  Laughter erupted about him. It was a welcome reprieve from the hours of creaking leather, jingling metal, and relentless clip-clopping that had grated on his nerves. Good to see you, you old rogue.

  In less than a minute, Tiberius Tacitus, Lucius Scipio, and Wilson Smith pulled up beside them. The two centurions clasped arms.

  “Well met, Tiberius,” Flavius boomed.

  “And you, my bowlegged friend. I noticed the reaction of the men around you as I rode in. Were you discussing the merits of my riding style again?”

  “You call that a style? You have the grace of a lump of granite. Did they not have any oxen at your little fort you could have utilized?”

  “That they did. But alas, I ate it in one sitting.”

  The two men hooted again, while the legionnaires in their company slapped their thighs. The appetite of Centurion Tiberius Tacitus was as well known as his lack of riding finesse.

  The two soldiers addressed each other in mock anger.

  “So why the delay?” Flavius barked. “It’ll be nightfall before we make Rhomane now. Not a good time to be abroad with the likes of you. You’ll frighten the men.”

  “I’m not sorry about that. I had no choice. Something called a sonic equalizer blew out on our main skidder. The one carrying all the ore. Without it, the blasted things don’t float. It’s like cutting the legs off your horse and expecting it to still be capable of trotting along.”

  “Big improvement in your case, then?”

  “True. Damn hard to push, as well. It took Terri and Stefan Hollander nearly two hours to repair. I was going to send riders ahead, but Lieutenant Smith reminded me of the recent warning we received, delivered to me in person by a Horde Master no less. Thinking about it, I decided he was right and kept the convoy together until we could move as a single unit.”

  “Fair enough, I’d probably have done the same in your shoes . . . .”

  An unspoken question hung in the air.

  The two men stared at each other.

  “And?” Tiberius growled.

  “What was it like? Coming face to face with a devil in the flesh? And a bloody beast master, at that?”

  Tiberius looked thoughtful. “Well, I can honestly say I’ll never wear those particular undergarments again. The whole experience was—”

  A dull thud came from the back of the column, cutting Tiberius dead.

  Every head turned in that direction.

  What on earth was that? “Tiberius? Is there anything you haven’t told me?”

  A plume of smoke ascended from the midst of the cavalcade.

  “Oh, for Mercury’s sake,” Tiberius replied, “it’s probably the skidder. The Hollanders are quite skilled as mechanics but they didn’t have the right equipment to carry out a full re—”

  Another, larger report throbbed about them.

  Flavius stood in his stirrups. Was that an explosion?

  The dual tones of a cavalry bugle and legion horn split the silence.

  We’re under attack? “Tiberius, rally your men. Claudius, alert the advance riders. Lieutenant Smith, spread your troops among the civilians. I understand some of them are equipped with modern weapons? Ensure they—”

  Bang!

  Flavius ducked reflexively as Wilson Smith fired at him.

  Bang! Bang!

  Screams erupted all around, filling the air with sudden pain and terror.

  Why is he firing at me? “What the blazes are you—?”

  An overwhelming concussion lifted Flavius from his saddle and sent him spinning through the air. Disoriented, he landed hard, the air knocked from his lungs. Gasping for breath, he became aware of an overpowering ringing noise in his ears. A sickening, burning smell issued from nearby. Automatically rolling to one side, he scrambled for his sword and pushed himself to his knees.

  Flavius bumped into something. He saw the charred flesh of a severed arm. Lying next to it, face down, was his optio. “Claudius,” he croaked. Scampering forward, he rolled his comrade over. “What hit us? Claudius? Can you . . . ?”

  It was only when he looked closely that Flavius realized his second-in-command was dead. Although open, his eye sockets were two empty wells, exuding a revolting, greasy black vapor that dissipated quickly in the breeze.

  No! It can’t be.

  Blinking furiously, he looked up through a tangle of horses’ legs and billowing dirt. Nightmare apparitions flared through a kaleidoscope of neon blue, and strontium red and black. Skipping in and out of view, they menaced anything they could get their claws on.

  Many didn’t get far.

  Again and again, one troll or another would loom out of the press only to disappear in a conflagration of blinding light and heat as it was cut down by iron.

  Wilson Smith sawed at the reins of his horse, maneuvering closer. He shouted something Flavius couldn’t hear. The young officer called again, pointing repeatedly at a spot behind Flavius. “Behi . . . you . . . com . . . out!”

  He drew his rifle from its scabbard.

  Flavius felt as if a lead weight had been dropped on his neck. Groaning, he managed to turn, and caught his breath in alarm. There, not ten feet away, a huge scarlet and blue monstrosity loomed above him. Clothed in a violet nimbus, and crowned by four dancing flames, the Horde Master spotted him, bared its fangs and talons, and closed on his position.

  Steadying himself with one hand, Flavius kicked for all he was worth, trying to scuttle backward. As he did so, he reached for his blade. Sound returned, and a discordance of screaming and yodeling wails assailed his senses from all sides.

  Several shots rang out. The Boss didn’t even blink. Protected as it was by an invisible barrier, the bullets ricocheted harmlessly away.

  Seven feet.

  Another fusillade rang out. That too was swatted aside as if it presented nothing more than a minor hindrance.

  Get up, man, Flavius chided himself, face this brute like a legionnaire.

  Five feet.

  With a mighty heave, Flavius staggered erect. I’ll not back down. Raising his sword high, he issued a defiant challenge. “Come then, demon, let’s see who wins this day.”

  Three feet.

  The apex of the monster’s shield bloomed scarlet and yellow. A spitting sound snapped and crackled about it, as if flesh were being seared against red-hot metal. Simultaneously, a deafening volley of rapid fire disoriented both man and beast.

  The Controller staggered backward, still alive, but with its defenses in obvious disarray. Flavius heard the sound of hooves and the whine of engines behind and above him.

  He glanced up. Flyers? Here? What . . . ?

  Then a heavier machine gun opened up, peppering the ground around him in fountains of dirt. Where the iron bit into the quintessence of an unprotected monster, its threshold sparked and erupted in angry bursts until its equilibrium was obliterated in a self-consuming implosion of flames and anguish.

  Propelled backward, Flavius tumbled over and over before coming to rest on his knees once more. Hunching forward, he retched, the contents of his stomach spilling onto the soil. Sitting back on his ankles, he drew in a ragged breath of air, but couldn’t prevent the scene from dissolved into a spinning vortex. The hardened soldier felt the world slipping away from him. Numbed, he was helpless to prevent his weapon from falling to the ground. Moments later, darkness descended, and his consciousness followed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Second Thoughts

  Mohammed began to relax. Although the battle was still underway, the tide had turned and the Hor
de attack appeared to be petering out.

  Thank God Jake Rixton had the foresight to follow his gut feeling. If he hadn’t suggested sending the drones out to check along the route, it could have been much worse.

  Mohammed zoomed in on the exchange. From above, the scene appeared to be punctuated by angry sparks and violent blooms of light. Bodies and debris littered the ground, but now that Wilson Smith and Tiberius Tacitus had rallied the troops, the only casualties appeared to be those belonging to the enemy. Fresh craters scarred the site of each explosion; they increased by the second.

  Whoever had the idea to coordinate their assault with assistance from the flyers is a bloody genius. The combined challenge appears to overwhelm Controller defenses.

  He looked again. But not on every occasion. Hmm. I wonder if that’s anything to do with the intelligence Mark Stevens put in? He said there was a noticeable difference in the flames of their crowns. It seemed to correspond to their presence, or energy quotient. If that correlates to strength, then it tends to confirm his theory of a definite rank structure.

  As an analytical man with a keen mind, Mohammed could only nod his head in appreciation. Brilliant tactics the Horde used. Protected by their shields, the Masters hit first, and targeted the convoy. They took out the lead and midway skidder and killed their crews. Then, having instilled panic and confusion, they unleashed their cannon fodder, and set about picking off any leaders they could find. Astounding.

  He scrutinized the console next to him. The live-time link was constantly updated as the names of casualties streamed in. It made unpleasant reading.

  Glancing back at the tactical display, Mohammed saw that the next wave of flyers were still ten or eleven minutes out. Equipped with micro-gravity mines, they would make all the difference.

  But they’re still a long way off.

  He had an idea. Standing, he caught the attention of the duty communications operator, Serena Taylor.

  “Serena, patch me through to the Arch of Winter. Quick as you can.”

  His main monitor wavered, and the face of Ephraim Miller appeared. “Ephraim, how goes it up there? Enjoying the view?”