Under Strange Suns (36 page)

He settled on a fifteen-minute fuse and slotted that into the bomb. He took out the book of matches, honoring Park by using the matches instead of one of the overabundance of fire-starters he had brought. No going back after this. He broke free a match and struck it alight. It flared more brightly than he had anticipated and he almost dropped it in fear of burnt fingers. But he controlled the impulse and applied the flame to the fuse. He dropped the match and wormed back down to the lower charge, moving as fast as he dared. The noises were growing louder. Gravel scraped his palms, stones barked his shins and rapped against the cushioning pads protecting his knees. His pants were taking a beating and he figured he was leaving a bit of skin behind on the rocks as well. But the crawling about was a change of pace from walking.

He removed a twelve-minute fuse and repeated the ignition process. Satisfied that the fuse was burning down steadily, he headed back up the slope. He wanted to rise to his feet and sprint to the top, but the chance of being spotted was too great. He would have to rely on keeping low and the smart camo of his jacket.

Aidan could make out individual voices now. If he stopped and turned about he would probably just see the leading soldiers tromping into view. He resisted, keeping low and moving steadily.

He passed the secondary device. The lip of the terminal moraine was but a scamper away, another minute on his belly. The noises below were getting louder.

The earth heaved beneath him–too soon!–tossing him a good six inches into the air as a massive pressure wave slammed into him from down the slope, throwing him head first into a shelf of dirt studded with exposed pebbles.

* * *

Ghemel found reduction to the ranks humiliating. He was a leader of elite troops, not himself a mere trooper, not simply another scout, one among many. He was accustomed to the Watchful God’s favor. He was uncertain how to behave without it until its inevitable resumption. So he kept sullenly to himself, accepted his patrol leader’s instructions without comment, and without dissent, though without any notable enthusiasm.

At least he had been assigned to the left bank of the stream. Only a negligible portion of the army toiled along this bank, mostly baggage handlers and support units, none of whom were in any marked hurry. Ghemel could scout at a gentlemanly pace without much concern of following companies demanding he pick up the pace. Across the stream, almost level with him, a scout patrol performed the same function, but did so with more alacrity, the vanguard following along close behind. In fact, if he turned his head he could see the leading ranks just clearing the trees. Were it not for his straitened circumstances it would be a stirring sight, the forerunners of a powerful force, armored and armed, the avenging hand of the Watchful God.

Ghemel was glad of one thing: this march was nearing a conclusion. He was eager to come to grips with the savages. The Watchful God would provide the opportunity for him to reclaim his position, redeem himself in the entirely too rigid perception of the Pontifex-General. And–an even more enticing prospect–he wanted to come to grips with the savage females. Ghemel had been too long without a woman, or a girl for that matter. He missed the widened eyes when the reality of the situation became apparent. He missed the struggle, that delightful appetizer preceding the main course.

But first he had to pick a path through the irritating maze of stones and boulders that had commenced upon passing through that last stand of trees. He paused by a few of the taller boulders to tie a colored streamer, taken from a pouch dangling from his belt, to mark the route for the following soldiers.

Peasant work. He needed desperately to return to a position of command and respect.

Movement on the far side of the stream caught his attention. Something was wriggling up the slope among the tumble of rock. Something moving on four limbs. Something vaguely familiar...

Ghemel scrambled toward the stream. Another sign of his superiority to the rank-and-file: Joon, as a rule, did not go in for swimming. But encompassed as they were on three sides by water, the inhabitants of Three-Day-Bend were not unfamiliar with the art. Floating on the back was the preferred method. But for speed, vigorous leg kicks combined with a powerful downward thrust of the outstretched arm could propel a swimmer a short distance before submerging. Flipping over onto the back provided a respite and a breath, followed by another lunge if needed. So Ghemel approached the narrow stream without trepidation.

But when the ground across the stream erupted in a geyser of rocks and gravel, he froze, shocked into immobility and nearly deafened. He saw the demon tossed like a child’s toy to lie unmoving. He saw joon-sized boulders tumble, rolling down the slope in the company of thousands of smaller rocks and a tidal mass of soil and gravel. Stones the size of his head flew like missiles toward the advancing scouts. Only one appeared to connect, tearing the leg off of a scout. But then the avalanche struck, burying the rest. The deluge of stones bounded, tumbled, and flowed to a stop just shy of the vanguard’s leading edge.

This was the demon’s work. And this was the opportunity he had known the Watchful God would provide. Ghemel hurtled himself into the stream and struck across to the other side.

* * *

Aidan’s ears rang an endless, toneless tocsin. He raised his head, a skim of blood-crusted dirt falling from his forehead. His temples throbbed. But he wasn’t woozy. Probably not a concussion, he decided. Then he thought,
it was a twelve-minute fuse, what the hell happened?
Then,
oh, the match flares should have told me: higher oxygen content in the air. Stupid, Aidan. Pay attention
.

“Pay attention,” he muttered, pushing himself to his hands and knees. “Fucking A, pay attention. The next bomb.”

He gave up on concealment and scrambled for the lip of the rise, wanting to be well clear of the blast radius and under cover. He dove over the top and slid to a stop. He spun about and raised his head over the cusp of the moraine for a peek.

Park’s earth mover had done its business. It seemed like half the gentle slope had been picked up and tossed twenty yards south. The tops of a few joon heads poked out of the churned soil, looking little different than the other stones scattered across the moraine. About two dozen more joon were picking their way across the rubble, or leaping from boulder to boulder, perhaps in a rush to dig free their comrades.

Aidan could see them but he couldn’t hear them. The bells in his head tolled fainter but still drowned out any outside sounds.

And then the second device detonated. The casing disintegrated into shreds of confetti ripping into the leading ranks. The joon were flung back, flopping to the ground like bloody rags.

Aidan had seen enough. He had hoped to catch more in the blast, but this mess should slow the advance significantly. He rose to his feet and turned.

He sensed something approaching fast from his left. He still heard nothing, but a flicker of motion, or perhaps a tremor in the loose soil, alerted him to the presence of someone else.

He jerked free the pistol with almost the speed of a quick draw artist. Almost. A quick draw artist would have been able to get off a shot.

Rushing toward him was a joon, the point of a sword leading the charge; a sword point that was only yards from running Aidan through.

Aidan didn’t have time to bring the pistol even to a hip shooting position. Instead, as his arm came forward, he flicked his wrist and sent the pistol tumbling end-over-end into the path of his assailant.

The impact of the pistol against the joon’s legs caused him no harm, bouncing off a thigh pad and into the skirts of his armor. But the threat of the oncoming missile, added to the impact, was enough to throw him off stride, allowing Aidan to dance back and to the side.

The joon’s momentum carried him several strides past Aidan before he could turn. Aidan used the time to reach behind his neck and slide his rapier free. He also used it to second guess his decision to lend Yuschenkov his backup piece. Of course, Yuschenkov had probably in turn lent it to McAvoy for his palladium mining excursion.

“Pay fucking attention,” Aidan told himself again.

The joon was advancing again and Aidan had time only to present his profile and place himself on guard. He didn’t have time to speculate about the doings of Yuschenkov and McAvoy.

There was something naggingly familiar about this joon. Then the joon lunged and Aidan stopped worrying about it. He barely had time to parry the attack. The joon was fast, and the head-on attack from the centrally located arm was disconcerting. Aidan had never practiced against an opponent like this.

He attempted a riposte, but the joon was already back out of range, circling. The joon struck again, beginning on a low line, then shifting the thrust higher, attempting to slip over Aidan’s parry. It might have worked if Aidan had been faster. Instead he reacted late enough that he never had the opportunity to fall for the ploy.

The joon engaged him then, his blade flickering in and out like the tongue of a questing snake. Aidan blocked and twisted furiously. The long sessions of VR fencing and his sideways stance–doubtless as unfamiliar to the joon as the joon’s stance was to Aidan–kept him alive, though he was pinked twice: a shallow puncture in his leading leg and a graze on the outer edge of his forearm.

This could not last. The joon was faster and fresher. Aidan had been exhausted when the bout began; he was going to run out of juice soon.

So, to hell with defense. Time to roll the die.

Aidan retreated, shuffling back. The joon hesitated a moment before following. Aidan abruptly reversed direction, taking advantage of his longer stride to close the distance rapidly. He beat at the joon’s blade, then caught it in a bind. They were close now, almost corps-a-corps. Too close for a telling thrust, but Aidan nonetheless disengaged, dropped his blade a fraction and pushed. He did not have the leverage to penetrate the joon’s armor. But he was larger and stronger. He in essence shoved the joon away using the tip of his rapier.

The joon stumbled back several steps. Unhurt, but too far away to immediately employ his sword. That was all the respite Aidan was hoping for. His left hand snatched free his parrying dagger and he squared his hips, facing the joon head-on.

Aidan grinned as the joon approached again, slower this time. “Two arms, shit head,” he said.

The joon essayed a tentative thrust. Aidan slapped it aside with his rapier, the gesture almost contemptuous. He didn’t want to let the joon see all his cards yet. On the other hand, he was short on time: he was tiring rapidly and there was the rather uncomfortable vicinity of the army just over the rise.

The joon spat, raised his blade in a gesture directed at the glowering planet above. Then he lunged, fast and hard, blade directed at Aidan’s chest.

Aidan was ready this time. He shifted to his right as he caught the oncoming sword blade with his parrying dagger. He pivoted, carrying the blade by him, and brought the edge of his own sword blade down on the joon’s outstretched arm as he plowed by. The sword sheared through the arm, the edge catching for a fraction of a second on bone before continuing through, trailing an arc of blood.

“Thank you, Master Smith,” Aidan said. He hadn’t been sure the rapier blade–even though forged to his specifications–would have the keenness or the weight for that blow to succeed.

The joon dropped to his knees, staring at the gushing stump of his arm.

Aidan gave him no further notice; the wound was mortal and Aidan had no time to administer a
coup de grâce
. His hearing improved incrementally. Faint sounds reached him from the other side of the rise. He tracked down his pistol where it rested, wedged between a stone and a tussock of grass the color of faded denim.

The new nicks on his body and the scrapes on his hand itched. He’d done all he could here. Time to get back to town.

* * *

Pontifex-General Vongük surveyed the devastation. Over twenty of the Watchful God’s faithful soldiers dead, a half-dozen or so wounded. The casualties were few enough, thanks be to the Watchful God. But this new obstacle, right in his line of march, was a setback. Had it occurred earlier it would have been a simple matter to go around. But the army was already committed to this route and was currently bunching up behind him as the follow on ranks encountered the stalled vanguard.

He wondered if it would be quicker to push straight on through, each soldier picking his way through the swath of boulders and debris. He bent to pick up a chunk of rock, felt the sharp edge where it had splintered off from a larger piece of stone. What sort of force was powerful enough to accomplish this? More evidence, he supposed, to back up the reports of demons from the red hell serving the savages this side of the Wild Wall. That thought renewed his determination. His army was truly the sword of the Watchful God, and this campaign a holy crusade.

The Pontifex-General dropped the jagged rock. He worked his way gingerly across the field of devastation. Rocks shifted beneath him at each step, threatening to turn an ankle, or send him into a stumbling fall upon the sharp edges of shattered stone. Perhaps it would be wiser to bring forward a team of pioneers to blaze the trail, dig through the worst of it, heap dirt over the more manageable sections. It might be slower, but he didn’t want to incur more casualties so near to battle.