Redemption Protocol (Contact) (79 page)

Havoc took his out with a burst of kinetics. Forge did the same. Ekker screamed as he cartwheeled through the atmo, his left leg blown away at the thigh.

Havoc looked at Ekker then back at Forge. They shook their heads at each other. Havoc thumbed backward.

“Let's go.”

He ran through the hole in the wall with Forge close behind him.

~    ~    ~

Ekker lay still for a minute, letting the hytelline kick in.

“Fuck fuck fuck.”

He gingerly raised himself up on all fours. He dropped a support rail from his suit and stood up. His left leg was a stick.

“Fuck.”

He hobbled away. His staggering gait reflected the drugs he'd ingested as much as the injury he'd sustained.

 211. 

Havoc stepped out of the howling wind and into silence. He darted down the corridor and provided cover while Forge moved past him to a T-junction. Havoc’s feet crunched over charred debris from the static defense stations as he advanced to join Forge.

Forge pointed left down a long curving corridor – the outer ring of the building. Havoc placed a flare star in the corridor entrance, configured it and stepped back while Forge covered him.

“It’s not about the Karver Republic, Forge. You always put yourself first.”

Forge chuckled.

“I let you come in here first, didn't I?”

A ball of plasma filaments erupted and exploded outward. The flare star hurtled down the corridor like flaming pitch dropped down a well. Havoc ran after it with Forge alongside him.

There was a series of explosions as the flare star detonated a cluster of mines. Two burning Gathering soldiers burst out of an alcove, spinning and flailing. Havoc took them out with double head shots and micromissiles. Flames erupted explosively from the Gathering suits.

Havoc glanced at Forge.

“I just don't understand how you can stab your own side in the back.”

“I was never on your side, Son.”

Havoc scanned as he approached an opening in the right wall that led into the second layer of the building. He lifted his right arm on the run and fired four kinetics through the wall.

“You're a war criminal. A mass murderer.”

Forge sounded genuinely perplexed.

“Have you looked in the mirror recently?”

Havoc threw out his arm as he reached the end of the wall. His taser whip unfurled and whipped around the corner. The taser crackled like a living thing as it caught something. A Gathering soldier spun into view. Havoc shot him in the head. A micromissile from Forge streaked past. The Gathering soldier's suit exploded.

“To save you the trouble,” Forge said.

Havoc moved round into the second layer of the building. Four headless corpses lay under four holes in the wall. Havoc fragged the bodies and advanced a short distance down the corridor. He crouched as he prepped another flare star.

“This isn’t the same thing.”

Forge stepped over a blackened corpse.

“It sure looks the same to me.”

 212. 

Arzbad-Framander Zuelth, Sword of the One True God, stood in the center of a magnificent temple.

The Redeemer had directed them to the central chamber of an enormous dome building – larger even than the amphitheater of the Tomb of Ceodur'ham from which the Glorious Redeemer had been freed.

Around the outskirts of the cavernous chamber were thick forests of slender columns. Spaced around the perimeter of the space within were seven giant bowls in dazzling colors. A blue flame burned brightly in each bowl; twisting, flaring and throwing out a piercing light.

In the center of the room, with an access plinth next to it, was the carousel. The carousel was an imposing circular structure that was wide at its base and narrowed as it rose. It was recessed into the floor and its base was covered with evenly spaced gleaming metal cylinders.

The outside of the carousel was formed by two surfaces overlaid on one another – one fixed and one moving. The fixed metallic surface rose up from the floor and was shaped like a series of narrow bell curves. The top of each bell curve touched the rim of a silver disc high overhead that formed the carousel’s ceiling. Hanging suspended from the silver disc and rotating slowly around the carousel was a glowing layer of a transparent material that fitted seamlessly over the curving metallic wall. The rotating overlay was like a distorted reverse image of the metallic bell curves.

Every four seconds the transparent overlay would form a perfect seal over the carousel then a second later its clockwise rotation would reopen curving shapes that expanded like the mouths of abstract monsters, allowing entry to the inside. Not that any of them had been inside the mysterious structure, not even the Redeemer Himself.

The Redeemer stood separately from the group of Gathering scientists that surrounded the access plinth. His mighty mane of golden hair was swept back and his protruding silver eyes witnessed everything.

Zuelth felt terror as well as awe as he gazed at the Redeemer. He supposed this was appropriate, given that the Redeemer would smite down His enemies and lead His people to glory. Zuelth had just imagined that he’d feel the Redeemer was a little more
on their side
. Actually, Zuelth realized, maybe it wasn't quite that, maybe it was just that he wasn't used to feeling quite so... disposable.

Zuelth was a self-confessed elitist. He believed in hierarchy. Men were superior to women – this was obvious – and some men were destined to be above others. Zuelth viewed life like an ancient construction project. Every building needed its laborers; expendable, cheap and infinitely replaceable – one was as good as any other. But at the other end of the spectrum, buildings also needed architects. Great men of influence and insight who were recognized as being superior. Life was hierarchical – it was the natural order of things.

Zuelth, it went without saying, was an architect. The five men who’d sacrificed themselves at the western pyramid entrance were laborers or maybe bricklayers, he thought. Loyal, certainly, but mere pawns nonetheless. Expanding on his chess metaphor, Zuelth thought the Nmr Qátl were more specialized pieces like bishops or knights. And he... Zuelth paused. Normally he would have said he was like a king. He glanced over at the Redeemer who stood magnificent and aloof. Maybe Zuelth was still a king and the Redeemer, imbuing the body of an infidel with His Father’s Ineffable Spirit, was the player of the game and beyond the pieces altogether. Yes, Zuelth thought, he was still a king on this large and complex board.

He sighed. He just felt so, well, dispensable – so unimportant. It was as if his superior qualities counted for nothing. In his elite upbringing and education, bred for greatness since birth, Zuelth had never experienced the sensation that at any moment he might be required to sacrifice himself for the greater good. It was disconcerting. Worrying, even.

He reflected on his glorious role in freeing the Redeemer. Maybe they would name a temple after him. Would he attain sainthood, he wondered. He winced. Was it possible to be a
living
saint? Being a
living
saint would truly reflect his greatness.

Zuelth was distracted by a scream from the access plinth. A scientist fell back clutching his face. His hair was on fire and smoke poured from his eyes and mouth. The scientist toppled backward with his arms outstretched and collapsed to the floor. Smoke rose from his head as the flames in his hair flickered and died, along with the poor gurgling wretch himself.

Zuelth frowned. This was the sixth scientist to sacrifice himself exultantly for the Redeemer. There were only four scientists left – three Senior Scientists and the Chief Scientist. The process was, of course, being conducted in a strict order that was directly and inversely proportional to rank. The more senior and hence presumably the more qualified that a scientist was to access the alien technology successfully, the less chance they had of actually having to do it.

Zuelth eyed the pile of bodies. All of the junior scientists were dead. The senior scientists regarded each other as they made the calculations of seniority, hierarchy and status that were learned implicitly from birth when you grew up in the Gathering.

The least senior, Senior Scientist stepped forward to the plinth. The others turned to observe the wall behind the scientist and, Zuelth suspected, to pray desperately that this man would be more successful than the last six.

Zuelth was impressed by the utter disdain that the Redeemer showed for the scientists. It was as it should be, of course. Zuelth thought that he’d perfected his dismissive attitude a long time ago, but he realized he could learn a great deal from the uncaring demeanor of his Lord. Zuelth felt a shiver of excitement. What exalted position would his God choose for him, the man who had rescued Him and brought Him to His temple to unleash the Army of the One True God?

The Redeemer turned to him. Zuelth bowed his head and averted his gaze. He trembled, ready to act on the command of his Lord.

“Zuelth, take your place with the others.”

 213. 

“Hi honey, I'm home.”

Weaver turned in surprise. Ekker stood in the doorway, leering at her. He leaned heavily against the frame.

Weaver kicked herself as she looked past Ekker at her helmet and handgun lying by the exit. An Alliance shuttle – of course Ekker would have the codes. Why hadn't she changed them? She frowned, then gasped as she noticed that Ekker's left leg was missing. She ran forward and knelt down.

“Oh my God! Are you alright?”

Ekker swallowed.

“Just a scratch.”

“Did the suit seal ok?”

Ekker swallowed again. His voice rasped dryly.

“Sure.”

She glanced up at him. Ekker’s eyelids were heavy and his pupils were dilated.

“Can I get you anything?”

He smiled down at her, lopsided and malevolent.

“I can think of something that would make me feel better.”

She frowned as she stood up and stepped back. Ekker watched her. She noticed his right hand was hidden behind his back. She looked around, wondering what to do. Ekker took a step forward.

“Come on, Weaver. I can tell you're a horny bitch. How about a little sugar? We're all dead anyway. Might as well enjoy it.”

She looked around at the bare paneling. Behind her was the cockpit. She stepped back instinctively.

“Get lost, Ekker, it’s not happening and you know it. Where are the others?”

Ekker’s eyes dwelled on her body.

“You think I'm going to die on this fucking shithole without any action? I knew I should have fucked Hwan when I had the chance.”

Weaver recoiled, horrified.

“Not if you were the last man alive, Ekker.”

He stepped forward again, his leg rail clanking as it struck the floor in place of his leg. His right hand swung round holding a knife.

“We might not have long. And I'm not asking.”

Weaver gasped. She backed away. Her options were limited, in that there were none. The gun that Havoc had given her was on the far side of Ekker. It might as well have been on the other side of the world. She cursed herself. How could she have been so stupid?

Ekker stepped forward again, his strut scraping the floor.

“Come on, Weaver. You never miss a slice from a cut loaf.”

She scowled at him, trying to assert herself.

“You can fuck off if you think your going to touch me.”

Ekker lifted his knife to his lips and ran his tongue along the blade. It crackled and sizzled. He stared straight at her while he did it. She could smell his tongue burning. She wanted to gag.

He stepped forward again. He was a giant in his combat suit.

She tried to push past him.

“Fuck you, Ekker, I mean it.”

She cried out from the force of the slap across her face. The upright seats slammed into her back. Tears came to her eyes as she raised her palm up to her stinging cheek. She glared at him.

“I’ve got an anti-rape screen.”

Ekker stepped forward again, his strut scratching the floor.

“Do you know how many times I’ve heard that?”

The determined look on her face crumbled as the reality of the situation sank in. She was in trouble. Ekker saw her fear. His face broke into a twisted grin.

“Oh yeah, you bitch, this is real.”

“Why are you doing this?”

His leg scraped forward again.

“Because I enjoy it.”

Her back was pressed against the seat. She had nowhere left to go. She hated herself for begging.