Land of the Dead (63 page)

Gretchen heard someone’s swift, measured breathing rasp on her suit comm and the soft clink of metal on metal.

We’re out of time.

Far far below, at the mouth of the abyss, two structures moved—one up, one down. The consoles flared alight with warnings, flashing glyphs and symbols of all kinds. Sahâne goggled at the displays, dark eyes filled with the hot glow of the lights. Simultaneously, his exo bleated a warning just as Anderssen’s fingertips—no more than a millimeter from his body—
adjusted
the drifting pattern of glyphs which controlled the alien’s body armor. The z-suit helmet suddenly detached with a
thonk!
as the retaining ring popped loose. The Hjo screamed, clawing at his neckring—atmosphere warmer than the sub-freezing atmosphere in the chamber rushed out, frosting the inside of his helmet solid white.

Her blood surging with adrenaline, Anderssen took the first chance for protection and heaved herself over the console just as Löjtnant Piet, shouting in alarm, lunged forward to catch Sahâne. The other two Templars turned hastily towards the near stairway, their guns coming up. Hummingbird hurled himself to one side, but too late as they both squeezed off a burst. Flechettes pocked the
nauallis’
chest and shoulder, punching him back. His footing lost, Hummingbird toppled down the steps, directly past the Jaguar Knight crouching at the edge of the platform.

Koris sidestepped the Judge nimbly. One powerful arm pitched a bundle of short-fuse grenades onto the platform. Löjtnant Piet turned awkwardly, Sahâne’s armored body clutched to his chest. The Hjo’s z-suit was rippling into spiked bio-armor while his clawlike hands struggled to replace the helmet. The grenade-bundle exploded less than a meter from Piet and Sahâne in a stunning blast of flame and armor-piercing shrapnel.

The Hjo bio-armor crumpled. Sahâne’s helmet flew backward and the plasma-flare boiled the priest’s flesh from his skull. The blast flung Piet and the corpse into the Thread. Like the bronze tablet, both Templar and Hjo were diced neatly in half before disappearing from sight.

The blast also slapped aside the other armored Templars. One hurled forward down the steps to crash into the Jaguar Knight in a tangle of arms and legs. The other slammed against the edge of a console, but bounced back, shaken but unharmed. The Templar vaulted the nearest control panel and skidded down the side of the pylon, showing fabulous dexterity in remaining upright. Two more marines opened fire on the Order Knight as he alighted, but neither was clad in battle armor.

Gretchen looked away as she heard the two Imperials die over the open circuit on her suit-comm. She clung by her fingernails to the base of the console, her feet dangling over a hundred-foot drop. Anderssen could see that the fight on the stairs was over, the remaining Templar having shattered Koris’ faceplate and flung him aside. Anderssen pulled back from the edge of the platform, wheezing, her damaged z-suit once more hissing air. Lacking the time to fumble out another cylinder of quickseal, Gretchen dragged herself up to the viewing screen. The surface was undamaged, and a quick glance showed pulsating warning symbols surrounding a new control constellation.
An override,
she guessed, her hand poised over the half-understood symbology.

Is it right for me to make this choice,
Gretchen’s conscience ventured.
For an entire race? One I’ve observed only in fragmentary dreams and through teaching-illusions? Guided by an untested hypothesis which could be so, so wrong?…

Lord Serpent stared back at her out of memory. A brilliant, golden glare of unfettered, unparalleled power. Brighter even than the plasma-blast incinerating its host.
Eat then, of the fruit of knowledge, and you shall know the truth.

Anderssen’s fingers moved on the console and the override blinked out.

The entire great machine groaned once more as the Thread whined to life. Far below, one structure rose, the other fell. Out of the corner of her eye, almost obscured by the helmet, she caught a glimpse of the last Templar turning towards her, assault rifle swinging up. It was Captain Locke. Gretchen swallowed against a dry, dry throat; a prayer to the Virgin of the Roses on her lips.

“Traitor—” Locke jerked as a very small hole appeared in his faceplate. Water vapor, blood, and atmosphere jetted out, condensing into dirty-red frost. The Templar pitched to one side, quite dead. Gretchen saw Hummingbird, one arm shattered, crouched at the edge of the platform, a tiny black gun in his hand.

“You do carry a pistol,” Anderssen said, crawling towards him. She was feeling so very, very cold. Her med-band shone solid red. “I always knew you did.”

“Not mine,” Hummingbird wheezed, his pupils huge from the meds coursing through his system. Shaking, he tossed the pistol aside. The weapon clattered away, fetching up at the foot of one of the consoles. “There is a grav-sled below, Anderssen, we can—”

He stopped, suddenly apprehending the bleak expression on her face, the cold, lifeless light in her eyes as she staggered up on both feet. Her field tool was in one hand as she limped towards him, the trenching spike extended.

“You just saved my life, Crow, but we are
not even
.”

Alarmed, the
nauallis
edged away from her advance, barely able to crawl.

“You drew that damned bronze block across my path as a lure, letting the teacher inside infest my mind—you brought the Prince and Sahâne here against their will, just so you could cut out their hearts on this hell-bound altar—yes, a nice symmetry, bringing three keys to the doors of the tripartite temple.” Her voice rose, ringing harshly on the suit-comm. “And you’ve your back up—these soldier-priests with their superb armor and unflinching resolve—but—by my eyes—they are
all dead
now, Crow, and only you and I are left.”

“Anderssen!” Hummingbird’s voice was ragged, but he managed something of his old strength. “Stop this foolishness! You need me to get out of here; we need each other to survive the next ten hours, we—”

“There is no
we
!” Gretchen lunged, slamming the field tool down at his face with a convulsive, rage-fueled stroke. The
nauallis
rolled away with a gasp at the last second, his face blanching white, and the pick screeched on the Vay’en metal of the floor. Hummingbird scrambled up, broken arm clutched against his thin chest. For the first time, she saw a glint of real fear in his limpid green eyes. The scarred, impassive face was suddenly showing signs of humanity. He scuttled back, finding himself caught in the wedge-shaped corner of two of the consoles.

“Doctor Anderssen, you know the kinds of things I must do. You know my purpose. I have never misled you about my aims. This place—”

“Is exactly the kind of trap you’ve always gone on about!” Gretchen snarled, circling to put herself between him and the stairs. “A fortune no one can spend, a tool no one dare wield. Do you grasp the enormity of what lies below us, incubating in the forge of creation? Do you know how long you would last under their influence?”

Hummingbird—sidling along the console—stopped, a questioning expression stealing over his scarred old features. “Do
you
know? Have you seen them, comprehended them?”

What? Oh Lady of the Seven Stars, he has no idea what is going on here!
Anderssen hefted the field tool, finding a surety of purpose in the heavy, oiled metal. “Goddamned Crow, you didn’t even know what you might unlock when you set the Prince against this place? What were you hoping to gain? The weapons technology behind the barrier of knives? Some fragments of the wisdom of the Vay’en themselves?”

“At the most,” he said, voice settling into something like its old calm, “the annihilation of the Prince, the Khaid, even the poor Ambassador and my own life in the bargain. A clean set of books—nothing falling into the Emperor’s hands to upset the balance at home—and
time
. Time we desperately need.”

“Against what black day?” Gretchen eased closer, the tool raised, her eyes fixed on his midsection. “Opening this tomb door would vomit up the annihilation of our entire species—isn’t that your eternal fear?—well, here you were right!”

She lunged again, snapping the tool around in a fast, sharp arc. Hummingbird bolted, twisting his shattered arm into the path of the spike. The point gouged into his z-suit, bouncing from a metal plate and snagging in the gel at the elbow. Gretchen wretched the tool away, but the
nauallis
slammed his working forearm into her faceplate, cracking a metal wristband against the glassite with a ringing blow. Stunned, Anderssen skipped back, desperate to retain her weapon.

“I never meant to wake the powers sleeping here!” Hummingbird gasped. “I was used in turn, Doctor, by a
Senescalcus
of Templars. He—it—is stronger than I understood. It
pushed
my mind, sent me down this course—sent them along, the Knights, to ensure the message we heard from Piet’s lips was delivered!”

Gretchen froze, a flash of memory resurfacing.
One survived. One still survives.

Then she moved again, vastly relieved. The last shred of conscience which had lain upon her, holding back her fury, evaporated. Something in her expression must have transformed as well, for Hummingbird hissed in anger and darted away from her, trying to cut across the gap between the consoles and the pit. Anderssen leapt after him, feeling a joyful strength filling her body. She caught him two paces from the edge of the shaft, dodged past his outflung arm, and smashed the tool across his faceplate and shoulder. Sparks leapt back, the old man crashed to the floor, and atmosphere hissed, obscuring his faceplate.

“Ahhh!” His cry of pain echoed on her comm. Anderssen pounced, pinning him to the floor with one knee. The point of the tool ground against his armpit, tearing at the gel.

“Anderssen, please! Remember your family, remember they need you to come home—to provide for them! Isabelle, Tristan—they can still benefit—the
calmecac
schools
can
be moved to accept them. Ahhh!”

The spike punched through into his side, blood boiling away into vapor as it welled around the metal.

“There’s nothing you can offer me, Crow, which will buy your life.” Gretchen’s voice was cold, her heart filling with a tremendous pressure as his face contorted behind the faceplate. “You can promise only ash and broken shells. Your gifts are only death and suffering—”

“Duncan,” he gasped, trying to catch her eyes, his old face tight with terrible pain. “There are universities on Anáhuac who will still take him; he can be all you desired, you can—”

“My son is dead,” she said, wrenching the field tool free and standing up. “My son
is dead
.”

Atmosphere hissed from the gaping wound. Hummingbird’s faceplate frosted over and she could hear a tight, harsh gasp of pain over her comm. The
nauallis’
body jerked spasmodically, limbs stiffening. He tried to roll over, to get his feet beneath him. Gretchen took a step back, and then jammed her boot into the old man’s side, sending him sliding across the mirror-bright floor. His good hand scrabbled wildly on the surface—then he tipped over the edge, just like Sahâne and the pilot.

The comm circuit cut off, leaving only Anderssen’s harsh, bellowslike rasp echoing in her ears.

It’s done. It’s all done.

OUTSIDE

The shuttle’s cargo door swung up with a whine and spacers in white-and-brown z-suits helped Hadeishi and the remains of his crew out into a huge, brightly lit boat-bay. Mitsuharu looked over the faces of his men with a measuring eye. They were all bloody, bruised, and pale with exhaustion.
Some of these men have crewed three ships in this one venture.
In spite of the heavy losses, he felt great relief and pride at the spirit of his surviving crew. Not one of them seemed impressed by the shining new ship surrounding them, or the ranks of armored men arrayed across the floor of the bay. Enormous banners hung from the walls, showing a crimson cross on a white field.
And now another ship, another berth. Lost travelers on the road to the holy city, redeemed from bandits and rogues by the cross-men.
Then he caught sight of a familiar face and smiled broadly through the grease and carbon he knew crusted his face and helmet. “
Konnichi-wa
,
Sencho-sana
.”

Captain De Molay was waiting impatiently, arms crossed, one foot tapping on the deck. She was kitted out in the same white-and-brown space-armor as the ship’s crew. Her rank insignia was quite polished; a squared crimson cross flamed on her breast. She saluted stiffly.
Wounds from the Khaiden ambush not yet mended.

“
Chu-sa
Hadeishi, welcome aboard the
Pilgrim
.”

Mitsuharu nodded, and then returned the salute with a hand trembling with fatigue. “Our fortune improves. And my men?”

“We’ve taken almost sixty aboard already, and there are more on shuttles inbound.” The elderly woman offered him a sombre expression. “
Our
medical facilities are first-rate.”