Zeck, Part 4: A Message From the Colonel
John went to sleep soon after he got back from relieving himself. “No reason to stay up,” he said. He pulled his hood down over his face and curled up on his side, using his arm as a pillow. Within a minute he was snoring.
A whirr of fans and gears, accompanied by uncountable beeps and boops spilled out of the cab. A cheer went up.
“They must have the computer working,” said Bob. John snored on, but Zeck helped Burts hobble up to the cab. Bob and Matthew were close behind. “Huzzah!” said Bob.
Meat Rom sat on the floor of the cab, tubes from the console inserted into each of his ears.
“If we bounce the signal off the volcanic shroud, we should be able to reach halfway around the world, even if we can't access the cloud,” said Steven.
“Let's hope so,” said Sheryl. She flipped a switch and tapped a few keys. Right away, the speakers started blaring with synthesized horns and sirens. She reached over and turned down the volume. “That sounds like a distress signal,” said Bob.
“It is,” said Sheryl. “Not just one. Dozens of them. Automated distress signals from Churlian satellites, military satellites from friendly nations, airships, even a few that we've picked up from ships at sea, broadcasting on emergency bands. It looks like they started just a few minutes after our computer blew out. Hang on, it's taking a minute to process all of these messages. There's not much information in them; mostly just automated signals indicating that the targets are under attack.”
“Which targets?” said Bob.
“Too many to count,” said Sheryl. “The homunculus was telling the truth. The Arterians must have been planning this for years. We're on our own out here. Whatever's left of our forces are going to have their hands full. This isn't a war; it's a massacre.”
“That's impossible,” Bob said. “I'm open to the idea that the Arterians have survived all these years at the South Pole. I mean, we saw them firsthand today, so I can't deny that. But to think that they've built an army or fleet capable of attacking the Churlian Isle, let alone every military target on Earth? It's absurd. I'd have a much easier time believing that we've been betrayed by a friendly nation. They must be in league with somebody. The Americans, maybe,” he said, throwing a meaningful look at Burts and Meat. “Or the Chinese. Or Greece. Or space aliens.”
“Regardless of who's behind it, it's happening,” said Sheryl.
“What about the Corrigan? We were supposed to deliver the prisoners to them.”
“I don't see any distress signals from the Corrigan, but it's an aircraft carrier. They'll be occupied, if they're still afloat. The same for any airships that could have come to pick us up.”
“What the hell are we supposed to do, then?” Bob said.
As if in answer, the computer's speakers started blaring again. This noise was less annoying than the distress signals, but sounded no less urgent.
“Another message?” asked Bob.
“A live feed,” said Sheryl. “It's addressed to me. It's coming through on a secure channel with redundant encryption.” She typed in her password, then looked into a lens in the console that scanned her retina. The computer chimed, and a video chat opened on the screen. The console's camera captured only a tight shot of Sheryl's face, excluding Steven and Meat Rom from the picture. The person on the other end of the call wore a spider mask like the Guards', only much more elaborate and detailed. The chelicerae on his mask curled inward, rather than hanging straight down. For just an instant, Sheryl's face betrayed something that looked like fear, or disgust, or respect, before her stoic facade returned.
“Captain Teymore,” said a voice like tin foil being scraped along the strings of a piano. His chelicerae moved when he spoke.
“Colonel Destroyer. Sir.”
“We have been trying to locate you. We were beginning to think you had been killed.”
“We were attacked by a platoon of Arterian Pneuma. We took out all of the soldiers, but their hovercraft had an automated emergency protocol. We hacked it, but it sent a feedback loop that damaged our computer. It took some time to conduct repairs.”
“I assume you've seen the distress signals, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“An impressively coordinated attack on our entire military force, including military bases on the Isle itself. All of our satellites, offensive and communicative, were destroyed or disabled. It seems we underestimated the Arterians.”
“Yes, well, I wouldn't know anything about that. Sir.”
“No, indeed, it's a shame you walked away from the task force. This might have been avoided.”
Sheryl didn't say anything to that.
“No matter, what's done is done. Do you have the quarry you were dispatched to apprehend?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent. You were meant to be briefed upon your rendezvous with the Corrigan, but she's been sunk and circumstances have changed. Those are no mere fugitive scofflaws you're escorting. Yours is a mission of vital importance to the Empire. Of course, this mission comes with a promotion. You may once more consider yourself a lieutenant.”
“What do you mean? Why have I been promoted? I requested this post. With all due respect, sir, I must decline. I'm not fit for the Sparassa. Service in the Guard suits me just fine.”
“Nonsense. Do you think I'd let someone of your skill ferry miscreants back and forth for the rest of her life? A gun is made to be fired, a sword thirsts for blood, and a soldier of your caliber is wasted as an attercop. You've been selected for a very important task, doubly important now that the war has broken. The Arterians would love to get their mutant hands on Fawth and Rom. We mustn't let that happen. These men are products of an experimental American biomechanical enhancement facility called Woulf. They've been altered genetically, mentally, and mechanically. The Americans had been keeping this facility secret from us, but they came begging for help when Fawth and Rom escaped. That's how important they are; the Americans have risked severe punishment in order to request our assistance. Is your paddywagon operable?”
“No, sir. It was damaged in the attack. The horses are fine, but the wagon has a broken axle. Irreparable with our current supplies. Our spotter was killed in the attack, but Captain Jaut and I are unscathed. Fawth was injured, and cannot walk faster than a hobble.”
“You'll have to set him on a horse with the supplies, then. Might as well wrap him in silk; he'll give you less trouble that way. Rom might be too much for a horse to bear, unless you leave half your supplies behind. We've managed to get a fix on your location through triangulation, but there are no airships to spare. I'll be on horseback with a small company of mixed units. You'll have to walk. I'm sending you the coordinates now. Just make your way in that direction and we'll meet somewhere in the middle. You mustn't tarry. The Arterians are occupied at the moment, but it's only a matter of time before they come back for you. How many prisoners are you escorting, including the two fugitives?”
“Six prisoners, sir. Mostly minor offenses.”
“All alive?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Bring the other four along if you wish, but they'll only slow you down. This being wartime, as ranking officer in your locale, you have full jurisdiction. You have authority to dispose of them. Or pardon them, I suppose, and allow the Hinterlands to dispose of them for you. I'll leave it to your discretion. Your priority must be the deliverance of Fawth and Rom. I expect to see you on the morrow. Do not cause me to wait.”
“Yes, sir.”
“On a personal note, Lieutenant, I look forward to serving with you again.”
The transmission ended.
“You know Colonel Destroyer?” said Bob.
“He was my commanding officer at one time,” said Sheryl.
“The Colonel Destroyer? What's he like in person? Did you meet his horse?”
“I used to feed his horse,” Sheryl said.
Bob tried to say something else, but he only managed to squeal.
“All right, fan boy,” said Sheryl. “We need to get moving. We have a long way to go. Make sure your guns are loaded. Keep your mask set to full spectrum night vision. You'll have to be our lookout.”
“Lookout for what? This is Terra Nova. It's empty.”
“No, this was Terra Nova thirty years ago. Now it's the Eastern Hinterlands.”
“But it's just an empty lava plain. Nothing lives out here.”
Sheryl sighed. “As you know, Bob, the Churlian Empire produces new land by harnessing magma from deep within the Earth. Sometimes they split the Earth, wrenching two places apart, and fill in the cracks with lava. Sometimes they simply let the lava flow over the landscape. The land we're on now is a little bit of both. But it's been here for years. The Empire has no interest in building on it or turning it into arable land. All they want is more land that reads, 'Churlia,' on a map. But empty land isn't going to stay empty forever. People start to creep in. People from the fringes. Outcasts, criminals, drifters, wild animals. Foke. Some are good, most are bad, so we need to be alert. Load your guns, and keep your eyes peeled.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Bob said. He saluted Sheryl, then ran to carry out her orders.
“The rest of you can help pack the horses,” she said.
“Do you think we should disconnect Meat Rom now?” Steven asked. “I think his hair's starting to singe.”
Meat Rom still sat on the floor of the cab with the tubes in his ears. His eyes were shut. A faint whirring sound came from his head. The hairs on the very top of his scalp were indeed starting to burn. “Oh, shit. Get those tubes out,” said Sheryl. She rushed to the cargo hatch that held the rations. A moment later, she returned with one of the bottles from the Meat Rom box. “Here,” she said, “drink this.” She held the bottle out for Meat Rom, but he didn't take it. His eyes remained shut. The circle of singed hair spread wider. Sheryl twisted the cap off of the bottle and held the opening under his nose. He didn't respond. “We left him plugged in too long,” she said.
“Squeeze the sides of his jaw and tilt his head back,” said Burts. “Just pour it straight in.”
“Won't he choke?” Sheryl said.
“He didn't before. It'll work, trust me.”
Steven squeezed Meat Rom's face. His mouth popped open like a fish. Steven tilted the giant's head back. Sheryl upended the bottle and poured its entire contents down his throat.
Meat Rom's eyes opened wide. He belched, sending waves of alcohol fumes through the air. “Me hair!” he said. He rain to the water tank and splashed a handful of it over his scalp.
“Are you all right?” Sheryl asked.
“Well, I look like Friar Tuck now, but my hair's out and I've got a little hooch in my belly, so I can't complain too much. That's strong stuff. That's what moonshine drinks when it wants to kill itself.”
“How much of the conversation did you hear before you started to overheat?”
“I heard all of it, I just couldn't move.”
“As far as I'm concerned, this doesn't change anything,” said Sheryl. “I still have a duty to escort you to the proper authorities, and an equal duty to protect you from harm. Protecting you from harm may include restraining you so I am not forced to injure or kill you if you do something stupid.”
“I'm prepared to do everything stupid,” said Burts. “You think we're just going to march along with you so your government can put us in a lab and turn us into weapons? What the hell do you think we just escaped from?”
“That's just it, though. You escaped. You are fugitives, and fugitives are hunted. If it's not the Churls, the Americans will find you. If not them, the Arterians will, and believe me when I say you don't want that. But you've already been captured, so that choice has been made for you. Your choice now is between riding on the back of a horse, wrapped up in spiderwebs so you can't even move, or riding upright with a little dignity intact. Flip a coin if you want. Either way works for me. But those are your only two options.”
“Look,” said Meat, “I can almost guarantee that Burts is gonna do something stupid, but it ain't likely to be something that necessitates killing him or tying him up. Our beef ain't with you.” He turned to Burts. “Look, mate, she's not wrong. If we try to make a run for it, the Arterians will snatch us up before we even get out of the Hinterlands. And we'd be all alone with no guns, no backup, and your bum leg.” He turned back to Sheryl. “I'm not gonna say I like it. In fact, I hate it. I've heard stories about this Colonel Destroyer, and I'm not too keen on meeting him. I'm even less keen on what he plans to do with us, but as you say, we ain't got much of a choice. We'll go with you, and we'll play nice. And I'll carry Burts so we have more room for cargo.”
Sheryl nodded. “I appreciate that.”
“I see something!” said Bob. He was out on the edge of the firelight, surveying the landscape. He pointed off into the distance.
“What is it?” said Sheryl.
Bob shook his head. “I don't know. Something big. A caravan, maybe. It almost looks like a freight train, but I can't make out individual cars.”
“Are you sure it's actually moving? Maybe it's just shadows on a hill, shifting in the firelight.”
“It does look like a living shadow,” he said. “It's huge, but it's definitely moving. I can't make out what it is, though, no matter how I tune my eyepiece. It's just a big dark hulk slithering across the ground like a snake. Oh! Maybe it's a snake.”
“Well, keep an eye on it,” Sheryl said. “Let me know if it comes closer.”
Sheryl and the others finished packing the horses. The horses were robots, so there was storage space inside as well as on top. They managed to pack all of the remaining rations, the water tank, the evidence locker, and the first aid and emergency roadside kits. There was even space to stow the broken Rover.
“Um, I don't want to alarm anybody, but I think the snake thing is coming our way,” said Bob.
“I still don't see anything,” said Sheryl.
“I kind of see something out there,” said Meat. “Could just be dust swirling in the wind.”
“It's not dust,” said Bob.
“Perhaps you're hallucinating?” said Zeck. “Maybe you got a dose of that purple smoke.”
“I see it now,” said Sheryl. “It's big.”
“It's big as a house!” said Bob.
“Could it be an ashmara?” said Zeck.
“No,” said Matthew. “We've got ashmara back home. They're not like this. They mostly happen while you're sleeping, and I've never heard of a group of people having the same one. I see it now, too.”
“It's coming this way,” said Bob. “It's getting faster. Oh, shit, it's gonna swallow us all!”
At the sound of Bob's cries, John sat up. “Time for a whizz,” he said.
The form in the darkness vanished.
“It's gone,” said Bob. He fiddled with the controls on his eyepiece. “It's just gone. It was there one second, not half a klick from us, and now it's disappeared.”
“Perhaps it was an ashmara,” said Zeck, “but the wizard dreams outside rather than in. When he woke up, the dream ended.”
“Or maybe he summoned it, intending for it to eat us all, but I broke his concentration,” said Bob.
“Gone is gone,” said Sheryl. “Discuss it on the road if you want. We're wasting time.”
“What the hell are you people babbling about?” said John.
“Phantom snakes. Visions. Hallucinations. Dust clouds. Whatever it was, it doesn't matter; we need to get moving.” Sheryl told him about the distress signals and the orders from Colonel Destroyer. “I have no intention of executing any of you,” said Sheryl. “I do have the authority to pardon all but Burts and Meat. If we were back in Rintburg, I'd do just that. Your offenses are all pretty minor, and we won't be seeing the Ruby Court any time soon. But If I pardon you, I'll have to let you go. It's wartime. I'm obligated to direct all the resources I can to the war effort, at the expense of humanitarian aid if necessary. If you remain prisoners of the Empire, I can protect you. But I need cooperation. There can be no argument. We move as a unit. If I give you an order, you will carry it out. Do we understand each other?”
Everybody nodded. A few said, “Yes, Ma'am.” Bob said it loudest of all.
“Good,” she said. “I suggest everybody grab an emergency blanket. It's cold out on the plains, and we're not stopping to build another fire.”