The Night's Dawn Trilogy (170 page)

“Stand by,” Ralph datavised to the Squad. “Status of the assault mechanoids, please?”

“On-line, sir,” the AT Squad’s technical officer reported.

Ralph gave the roll-up door another scan. Like Pandora’s box, once it was open there would be no going back. And only he,
Roche Skark, and Admiral Farquar knew that if the virus carriers got past the AT Squad, then the industrial park would be
targeted by SD platforms.

He could
feel
the low-orbit observation satellite sensors focusing on him.

“Okay,” he datavised to the squad. “Go.”

•  •  •

The assault mechanoid which Ombey’s AT Squads employed looked as if the design team had been accessing too many horror sensevises
for inspiration. Three metres high at full stretch, it had seven plasmatic legs, resembling tentacles with hooves, which could
move it over the most jumbled terrain at a sprint that even boosted humans couldn’t match. Its body was a segmented barrel,
giving it a serpentine flexibility. There were sockets for up to eight specialist limb attachments, varying from taloned climbing
claws to mid-calibre gaussrifles. Control could be either autonomous, operating under a preloaded program, or a direct waldo
datavise.

Five of them charged across the parking yard outside the warehouse, covering the last thirty metres in two seconds. Long,
whiplike cords lashed out from the top of their bodies, slashing against the door’s centimetre-thick composite. Where they
hit, they stuck, forming a horizontal crisscross grid four metres above the ground. A millisecond later the cords detonated;
the shaped electron explosive charge was powerful enough to cut clean through a metre of concrete. The ruined door didn’t
even have time to fall. All five assault mechanoids slammed against it in a beautiful demonstration of synchronized mayhem.
What was left of the door buckled and burst apart, sending jagged sections tumbling and bouncing down the warehouse’s central
aisle.

With a clear field of fire established, the mechanoids sent a fast, brutal barrage of short-range sense-overload ordnance
blazing down the length of the building. Sensors instantly pinpointed the designated-hostile humans flailing around in panic,
and concentrated their fire.

Behind the assault mechanoids, the AT Squad flashed through the smoking doorway. They scuttled for cover between the stacks
of crates, scanning the deeper recesses of the warehouse for hidden hostiles. Then, with the mechanoids taking point duty
down the central aisle, they began to fan out in their search and securement formation.

Mixi Penrice, proprietor of Mahalia Engineering Supplies, had been struggling to remove the linear motor from the stolen taxi’s
rear axle when the assault mechanoids crashed into the warehouse door. The noise of the shaped electron explosive charges
going off was like standing next to a lightning strike.

Shock made him jump half a metre in the air, not an easy feat given he was about twenty kilos overweight. Terrible lines of
white light flared at the far end of the warehouse, and the door bulged inwards briefly before it disintegrated. But he wasn’t
so numbed that he didn’t recognize the distinctive silhouette of the assault mechanoids sprinting through the swirl of smoke
and composite splinters. Mixi shrieked and dived for the floor, arms wrapping around his head. The full output of the sense-overload
ordnance struck him. Strobing light which seemed to shine through his skull. Sound that was trying hard to shake every joint
apart. The air turned to rocket exhaust, burning his tongue, his throat, his eyes. He vomited. He voided both his bladder
and his bowels; a combination of sheer fright and nerve short-out pulses.

Three minutes later, when pain-filled consciousness returned, he found himself lying flat on his back, shaking spastically,
with disgustingly thick liquids cooling and crusting across his clothes. Five large figures wearing dark armour suits were
standing over him, horribly big guns trained on his abdomen.

Mixi tried to clasp his hands together in prayer. It was the day which in his heart he’d always known would come, the day
when King Alastair II dispatched all the forces of law and order in his Kingdom to deal with Mixi Penrice, car thief and trader
in stolen parts. “Please,” he babbled weakly. He couldn’t hear his own voice; too much blood was running out of his ears.
“Please, I’ll pay it all back. I promise. I’ll tell you who my fences are. I’ll give you the name of the bloke who wrote the
program which screws up the road network processors. You can have it all. Just, please, don’t kill me.” He started sobbing
wretchedly.

Ralph Hiltch slowly pulled back his shell helmet’s moulded visor.
“Oh, fuck!”
he yelled.

•  •  •

The white plaster and stone interior of Cricklade’s family chapel was comfy and sober without the exorbitant lavishness prevalent
throughout the rest of the manor. Its history was cheerful, anyone walking into it for the first time was immediately aware
of that; you only had to close your eyes to see the innumerable christenings, the grand marriage ceremonies of the heirs,
Christmas masses, choral evenings. It was as much a part of the Kavanaghs as the rich land outside.

Now though, its gentle sanctity had been methodically violated. Icon panels defaced, the dainty stained-glass windows broken,
the statues of Christ and the Virgin Mary smashed. Every crucifix had been inverted; red and black pentagrams daubed on the
walls.

The despoiling soothed Quinn as he knelt at the altar. Before him an iron brazier had been set up on top of the thick stone
slab. Avaricious flames were busy consuming the Bibles and hymn books it contained.

His body’s lusts satiated by Lawrence, fed on gourmet food, and overindulged on the bottles of vintage Norfolk Tears from
the cellar, he felt miraculously calm. Behind him, the ranks of novices stood to attention as they waited to be inducted into
the sect. They would stand there, motionless, for all of eternity if necessary. They were that scared of him.

Luca Comar stood in front of them, like some masterful drill sergeant. His dragon armour glinted dully in the firelight, small
plumes of orange smoke snorting from his helmet’s eye slits. He had worn the guise almost continually since possessing Grant
Kavanagh’s body. Compensating for some deep psychological fracture, Quinn thought. But then everyone returning from beyond
was flaky to some degree.

Quinn allowed his contempt to rise, the raw emotion bubbling into his brain. The hem of his robe gave a small flutter. Here
on Norfolk such pitiful masquerades would triumph, but on few other worlds. Most Confederation planets would fight back against
the incursions of the possessed, and those were the planets which counted. The planets where the real war would be fought,
the universal war for belief and devotion between the two celestial brothers. Norfolk was irrelevant to that struggle, it
could contribute nothing, no weapons, no starships.

He lifted his gaze above the flames darting out of the brazier. A vermillion sky was visible through the gaping rents in the
broken window. Less than a dozen first magnitude stars twinkled above the wolds, the rest of the universe had been washed
out in the red dwarf’s sullied glow. The tiny blue-white lights seemed so delicate and pure.

Quinn smiled at them. His calling was finally revealed. He would bring his divine gift of guidance to the lost armies which
God’s Brother had seeded throughout the Confederation. It would be a crusade, a glorious march of the dead, folding the wings
of Night around every spark of life and hope, and extinguishing it for ever.

First he would have to raise an army, and a fleet to carry them. A frisson of his own, very personal desire kindled in his
mind. The serpent beast speaking right into his heart. Banneth! Banneth was at the very core of the Confederation, where the
greatest concentration of resources and weapons lay.

The obedient novices never moved when Quinn rose to his feet and turned to face them. There was an amused sneer on his snow-white
face. He jabbed a finger at Luca Comar. “Wait here, all of you,” he said, and stalked down the aisle. Dark magenta and woad
moire patterns skipped across the black fabric of his robe, reflections of his newfound determination. A click of his fingers,
and Lawrence Dillon scurried after him.

They passed quickly through the ransacked manor, and down the portico’s stone steps to the farm rangers parked on the gravel.
A smudge of smoke on the horizon betrayed Colsterworth’s position.

“Get in,” Quinn said. He was on the verge of laughter.

Lawrence clambered into the front passenger seat as Quinn switched the motor on. The vehicle sped down the drive, sending
pebbles skidding onto the grass verge.

“I wonder how long they’ll stay in there like that?” Quinn mused.

“Aren’t we coming back?”

“No. This crappy little world is a dead end, Lawrence. There’s nothing left for us here, no purpose. We have to get off; and
there aren’t many navy starships in orbit. We’ve got to reach one before they all leave. The Confederation will be waking
to the threat soon. They’ll recall their fleets to protect the important worlds.”

“So where are we going if we do get a frigate?”

“Back to Earth. We have allies there. There are sects in every major arcology. We can gnaw at the Confederation from within,
corrupt it completely.”

“Do you think the sects will help us?” Lawrence asked, curious.

“Eventually. They might need a little persuading first. I’ll enjoy that.”

•  •  •

The AT Squad had the exclusive shop completely surrounded. Moyce’s of Pasto occupied a more hospitable section of the city
than the Mahalia warehouse. The building’s design was an indulgent neo-Napoleonic, overlooking one of the main parks. It catered
to the aristocracy and the wealthy, trading mainly on snob value. The shop itself was only a fifth of the business; Moyce’s
main income came from supplying goods and delicacies to estates and the upwardly mobile clear across the continent. There
were eight separate loading bay doors at the back of the building to accommodate the fleet of lorries which were dispatched
every night. Their feed roads merged into a single trunk road which led down into a tunnel where it joined one of the city’s
three major underground ring motorways.

At ten past midnight its distribution centre was normally busy loading lorries with the day’s orders. Nothing had emerged
in the four minutes it had taken the AT Squad to deploy. However, there was one vehicle parked outside the end loading bay,
obstructing the road: the taxi which the AI cores had traced from the spaceport. All its electrical circuits had been switched
off.

Fifteen assault mechanoids dashed up the slope to the loading bay doors, their movements coordinated by the Squad’s seven
technical officers. Three of the doors were to be broken down, while the others were to be blocked and guarded. One had been
assigned to the taxi.

Six of the assault mechanoids lashed out with their electron explosive whips. Squad members were already running up the feed
roads behind them.

Not all of the whips landed on target. Several detonations chopped into support pillars and door joists. Brick-sized lumps
of stone came flying back down the feed roads. Two of the assault mechanoids were hit by the chunks, sending them cartwheeling
backwards. The entire central loading bay collapsed, bringing with it a large section of the first-storey floor. An avalanche
of crates and cylindrical storage pods tumbled down onto the road, burying a further three assault mechanoids. They started
to fire their sense-overload ordnance at random; flares and sonic shells punching out from the wreckage amid huge fountains
of white packaging chips. Crumpled kitchen units and patio furniture skittered down the mound.

The AT Squad members dived for cover as another two mechanoids started to gyrate in a wild dance. Their ordnance sprayed out,
slamming into walls and arching away over the park. Only three of the remaining assault mechanoids were actually firing ordnance
into the two loading bays which had been broken open.

“Pull them back!” Ralph datavised to the technical officers. “Get those bloody mechanoids out of there.”

Nothing happened. Sense-overload ordnance was squirting out everywhere. The assault mechanoids continued their lunatic dance.
One pirouetted, twining its seven legs together, and promptly fell over. Ralph watched a dozen flares shoot straight upwards,
illuminating the whole area. Black figures were lying prone on the feed roads, horribly exposed. A sense-overload flare speared
straight into one of them; then it expanded strangely, creating a web of rippling white light. The suited figure thrashed
about.

“Shit,” Ralph grunted. It wasn’t a flare, it was the white fire. They were in the distribution centre! “Shut down those mechanoids
now,” he datavised. His neural nanonics reported that several of his suit systems were degrading.

“No response, sir,” a technical officer replied. “We’ve lost them completely, even their fallback routine has failed. How
did they do that? The mechanoids are equipped with militarygrade electronics, a megaton emp couldn’t glitch their processors.”

Ralph could imagine the officer’s surprise. He’d undergone it himself back on Lalonde as the awful realization struck. He
stood up from behind the parapet on top of the tunnel entrance, and lifted the heavy-calibre recoilless rifle. Targeting graphics
flipped up over his helmet’s sensor image. He fired at an assault mechanoid.

It exploded energetically, its power cells and ordnance detonating as soon as the armour-piercing round penetrated its flexing
body. The blast wave shifted half of the precariously tangled wreckage in front of the collapsed loading bay. More crates
thumped down from the sagging first-storey floor. Three assault mechanoids were sent lurching back down the feed roads, plasmatic
legs juddering in fast undulations.

Ralph shifted his aim and took out another one just as it started to lumber upright.