Trident's Forge (13 page)
Authors: Patrick S. Tomlinson
Waving zer arms, Kexx started shouting in G'tel, human, whatever would get enough attention to summon help. Preferably of the heavily armed and irate variety. With clear sightlines, the accuracy of zer pursuers' spears improved immensely. Kexx weaved back and forth as ze ran, trying to throw off their aim. A fresh stab of pain rang out as a speartip grazed zer leg, tearing a nasty gash in the skin but fortunately leaving the muscle untouched.
Ze quit zigzagging and ran flat out for the first ring of homes where ze could finally get behind some cover. Just as Kexx reached the first house, a spear struck the wall not half an arm-span to zer left. The glass point shattered against the rock-hard mudstone, sending a hail of shards in all directions and cutting Kexx just below zer left eye. A finger thickness higher and ze would've been blinded.
It's nothing, keep moving
, Kexx told zerself. Ahead at the ceremony site, ze could barely make out Tuko and the other village elders standing near the visiting human delegation. For once, Kexx was relieved to see Kuul standing close by. Ze called out to them again, but even as Kexx shouted, a commotion broke out among the delegations. Warriors ze didn't recognize started attacking the humans. Mei's friend, Benson, dove at one of them and they began to wrestle. Without warning, a sharp sound like a giant tree snapping in the wind slammed into Kexx's ears.
Then, the thunder rolled in.
B
enson took
six steps before realizing he'd made the decision to start running. Korolev was already on the ground, pinned underneath one of the foreign warriors. The Atlantian had tried to run his friend through from behind with a spear, only to watch the point snap off against Korolev's riot armor. The big bruiser didn't miss a beat and knocked Korolev down before he could get his rifle up, then started choking him out with the spear shaft.
While completely unarmed, Benson wasn't a small man. He'd been an athlete for more than half of his life and had never let his conditioning slip, even after retiring from Zero. For the last three months, he'd been running American football drills right alongside the team he was training. So when he got up to full speed and tucked his shoulder for an open-field tackle, nothing short of one of Shambhala's prefab concrete buildings was going to remain unmoved.
Benson plowed into the alien straddling his friend like a runaway elevator car. The Atlantian's lack of a rigid skeleton was the only thing that kept his ribcage from shattering, and, quite possibly, from Benson dislocating his shoulder as well. They rolled together once, twice, before coming to rest.
The Atlantian won the roll and landed on top. He grabbed for Benson's throat with strange, rubbery hands and squeezed for all he was worth. But Benson had dealt with enough domestic disturbances in his time as a constable to know how to handle a choke hold. He had five, maybe ten seconds to react before blacking out; plenty of time to snake his hand up between his attacker's arms and jam a thumb in the alien's eye.
It's a constant throughout the universe that things really, really don't like getting poked in the eye. The Atlantian proved no different and released his death grip on Benson's neck to get away from the thumb. The Atlantian reached back and grabbed an obsidian dagger from somewhere in his skirts, then raised and pointed it at Benson's chest, ready to drive it through him and into the ground like a tent stake.
The bark of Korolev's rifle struck Benson's ears like a hammer, but not nearly as hard as the bullet struck his attacker's head. It popped like a party balloon filled with red velvet cake. The nearly headless body spasmed and slumped backward, spurting blood and gore as it folded into the dirt.
Then, the thunder of guns erupted.
Benson squirmed out from under the lifeless body as fast as he could and found a hand waiting to help him to his feet.
“We gotta move, chief!” Korolev shouted over the rat-tat-tat of automatic weapons fire.
“No shit!” Benson pointed at the flood of charcoal-colored warriors streaming down from the edge of the forest.
Korolev's eyes went wide as the full realization of their situation hit home.
“Napoleon?” Benson whispered to Korolev.
“Valmassoi's call sign. It was randomly generated.”
Sure it was
, Benson thought before speaking into the com.
Atwood and her people made short work of the assassins hidden among the ceremony's ranks. Bodies, both Atlantian and human, proved that it hadn't been without casualties, but there was no time to count the dead and wounded with the real fight charging down on them.
“I could use a hand, chief,” Korolev said.
Benson, still flying high on adrenaline, wiped the blood and brain matter off his face and ran his hand over his pants. “Lead the way.”
Valmassoi wasn't far away, but someone had gotten to him first. Benson spotted the administrator lying face down near the sacrificial altar as the shouting of warriors and the percussion of rifle fire echoed through the crater.
Benson pointed. “There! I think he's hurt.”
The two of them ran the last few steps to where Valmassoi had fallen. Blood soaked through his tan shirt and stained it brown in a half dozen places.
“Oh, he's hurt all right.” Benson leaned down and squeezed Valmassoi's neck. “I have a pulse, but it's faint.”
“Can we chance moving him?”
Benson nodded toward the coming horde. “We can't chance
not
moving him.”
Korolev bent over and rolled Valmassoi over, then gathered up his arms to pick him up. But Benson stopped him. “No, I'll carry him. I'm stronger than you and I need you to cover me with that cannon.”
Benson grunted as he hefted Valmassoi's limp body onto his shoulders into an army man carry and stood.
Korolev shouldered his rifle and pointed it for the hill. “Where to, chief?”
Benson scanned his surroundings, looking for the most secure place to hole up, but nothing recommended itself. The Atlantian's buildings were robust, but they'd been built to withstand hurricanes, not invading armies. Most didn't even have doors.
But he knew one place that did.
“The reentry capsule. Let's go.”
Korolev nodded and started for the pod at a jog. Benson followed, struggling to maintain his balance under the awkward load. Fortunately, the capsule hadn't been moved since landing east of the temple, carrying them away from the invaders and buying them precious time.
“Hurry, chief. They're gaining!”
“Some of us are running for two, constable,” Benson huffed.
“Just be glad he's not Lindqvist,” Korolev said, referring to the Mustangs' middle linebacker.
Benson shuddered at the thought. Suddenly, Valmassoi didn't feel all that heavy. The crater's incline was just starting to ramp up as they reached the capsule. Korolev swung the hatch open and jumped inside just as Benson's legs threatened to combust. He set Valmassoi down on the lip of the entrance as gently as he could, then grabbed the unconscious man's feet while Korolev pulled the administrator inside by his arms.
They set him down on the floor and Korolev checked for a pulse again.
“Still with us, barely.”
“Put pressure on the worst wounds,” Benson said.
“Here?” Korolev pointed to a nasty stab wound below Valmassoi's heart.
“Yes.”
“I can't believe he's still alive after all this.”
“I don't think they knew where to stab him.” Benson looked back out the hatch to see the first wave of blackened invaders crash headlong into the hodgepodge of Atlantian warriors hastily assembled to oppose them. Short, paired bursts of fire from Atwood's security team tore mercilessly at the advancing hostiles, but weren't having the effect one would hope.
“Lock this hatch behind me,” Benson grabbed Korolev's shoulder. “Shoot anything that tries to come through that isn't human. Valmassoi is your priority now.”
“Where are you going, chief?”
“To help.” Benson crawled out and slammed the hatch shut behind him, then waited just long enough to hear the locking bolts click into place. Satisfied Korolev was following instructions for once, Benson turned and ran back toward the sounds of battle, not at all confident that it was the smart thing to do.
The line went silent as Benson reached the edge of the mêlée. Chaos reigned among the fighters exchanging spears, daggers, and gunfire, and the civilians trying desperately to get out of the way. The battle lines, such as they were, had shifted toward the boundary of the second ring of buildings. Kuul and his warriors had formed up into a defensive line to try to break the wave of painted invaders. DeSanto had joined Hamilton on an adjacent rooftop using his rifle to pick off targets of opportunity, while Atwood had waded right into the thick of things. The human delegation had moved out of sight.
Benson reached down and plucked a spear off the ground next to a fallen Atlantian. It had a big center point with two smaller tines jutting out at about thirty degrees. From the look of it, it was probably a fishing trident grabbed in desperation rather than a proper battle implement. The weapon was long for his arms and felt a little unwieldy, but it was better than nothing.
problem than being overrun by hostile savages?>
Benson stopped. They were already working near the limits of their plant's range just to communicate with the
Discovery
. Its communication equipment acted as a relay back up to the Ark and then back down to Shambhala. If they couldn't talk to the shuttle, they couldn't talk to
anybody
.
But instead of flying back, the Atlantian sort of folded around Benson with the impact. He was used to sparring with other humans who all had a defined shape you could count on. These aliens, on the other hand, were so unnervingly flexible, he may as well have been fighting butterscotch pudding.
Benson fell back as fast as he could without tipping over himself, but the intruder pressed the attack, thrusting wildly with the spear as he advanced. Benson parried as quickly as he could, and even managed to trap his opponent's spear between two of his trident's prongs for a split-second before he pulled it free and reset for another thrust. Benson took a long step back, but, to his horror, something caught his trident and stopped him dead. He glanced back and realized the butt of its overly long shaft had caught in a small hollow.
Before he could free it, the intruder pounced. In a panic, Benson drew the head of his trident up, closed his eyes, and braced for the spear that was about to run him through. His body shuddered from the impact, but instead of being impaled, he was surprised to feel only a small sting just below his hip.
Benson peeled his eyes open and saw a small rip in his pants where the speartip had pierced, but nothing more. He looked up into the alien's oversized violet eyes, or more accurately, eye, the other one having been skewered like an oversized cocktail olive by the trident's large center spike, the last few centimeters of which protruded out the back of his attacker's head in a most grisly fashion. The alien's legs continued to walk forward while its hands tried in vain to grip a spear shaft that was no longer there. It would take a little longer for the rest of its peripheral nervous system to get the memo that the brain was stone dead. In the meantime, the corpse soldiered on, shuffling like a windup toy, held in place by Benson's trident. Benson had never killed anyone before. He looked at the alien's slack, dead face in dawning horror.
An extraordinarily confused sacrificial chicken chose that instant to wander past, stopping to scratch for grain near the alien's still-milling feet. For a mad moment, Benson broke out laughing as his brain rebelled at the absurdity of everything he was seeing.
No way
that
doesn't turn into a recurring nightmare
, he thought as the image found a nice comfortable spot to burrow into his subconscious.
Someone shouted from the temple behind him and snapped Benson back into the moment. It was one of the members of the expedition. He forgot the trident and ran for the door. Benson dove the last meter and rolled to a stop just inside the entrance.
A forest of hands, both human and Atlantian, reached down to help him back to his feet. It took a moment for Benson's eyes to adjust to the weaker torchlight inside the temple. He scanned the room for Mei or any of the other Unbound.
“Weapon,” he said hurriedly. “I need a weapon.”
His software produced a translation, and instantly a dozen hands waved a dozen obsidian knives in the air for him to choose from. Benson was on somewhat firmer ground when it came to knives. They'd been the weapon of choice for the desperate or disturbed during his law enforcement career aboard the Ark, and he still carried the scars to prove it. He'd taken the time to get trained up on them. He grabbed one of the offered blades and flipped it around in his palm to get a feel for its weight and balance. The handle was a little thick in his hand, but he'd manage.