The IX (24 page)

That’ll teach them.

Marcus grinned as he discerned the identity of the whiner.

Doesn’t that man ever run out of things to complain about?

Hurrying down, Marcus went to see what Houston had done
this
time.

*

The two entities suspended within the confining lattice strained for release. Although dulled by a seeming eternity spent trapped in isolation, their senses ached in the presence of so much eldritch life force. One such concentration of sustenance was tantalizingly close. If only it had been possible for them to just reach out and touch that elusive
other
, they would have gained the vitality needed to break free of their restricted existence. They groaned in mutual longing and agony.

Their memories were fragmented, reluctant to respond to mundane thought. Neither could remember how they had come to be in such a position, or for how long they had been there. Their only certainty was a vague
knowing
that there had been a time before this void when they had existed elsewhere. Such a notion felt right. Solid. Factual. But any attempt to capture and clarify such comprehension resulted in a stagnant splintering of focus that centered on their immediate need to feed. Here. Now.

Puissant resonances chimed among the energy nodes. Exerting its sight, one of the entities noticed a flaring outburst of passion congealing among the lesser lights nearby. The beacon was like a neon-red invitation. The captive mind tried to reach out and mesh with that other essence, to blend with it and convey the import of a message it felt compelled to utter. Yett no sooner had it made the attempt than it forgot what it needed to say.

Coldly, dispassionately, it consigned itself to wait.

There were many other sources nearby. Perhaps an opportunity to express itself would arise if it waited a little longer.

*

Everything turned white as a glaring flash claimed his senses.

A moment of dislocation followed and the world tipped alarmingly. The floor rushed up to meet him and Houston hit the ground, hard. He shook his head in a vain attempt to reclaim the wits that had just been knocked into orbit.

The ringing in his ears eventually subsided, only to be replaced by the throbbing ache of his jaw. Confused, Houston opened his eyes. Outlined by the illumination of solar beacons, a darkened cliff loomed before him, wavering behind a constellation of spangled stars. The more Houston blinked, the worse they swarmed his vision with glittering pinpricks of light that refused to dissipate.

Spitting out blood, Houston rolled onto his knees and tried to stand up. Unknown hands helped him to his feet. He heard a voice at his side, close to his ear. “Can you hear me, James? Are you all right?”

“Wilson? What in the. . . ?” His vision refused to clear.

The wall of rock dancing within his field of view rumbled forward, clarifying into a bull-necked man of impressive physique.

“What did you have to hit him so hard for?” Wilson Smith complained. “He’s a captain in the United St–”

“
Was
a captain,” Decimus Martinas barked, cutting off the younger man’s protestation, “just as I was a centurion. And while our hosts have extended us a degree of courtesy in line with our previous standing, those ranks don’t mean a thing here.” Glaring at Houston, he raised a great ham of a fist and snarled, “
Here
we earn our honor. Our names. And you’d better get that through your thick skull. Because if you don’t, I’ll be happy to educate you on the way things really are. You’ve upset enough people as it is. Don’t make things any harder than they have to be.”

Houston’s face burned crimson. He pushed himself away from his cousin, and attempted to stand unaided.
Bastard! I won’t forget this
. “Well, you’ve certainly shown everyone how a lack of education expresses itself,” he drawled, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Is that the only way you know how to settle a difference of opinion where you come from? ‘I can’t think, but look, I can hit?’”

Several other legionnaires standing close by bristled at the jibe. Decimus took a threatening step closer, his gazed turned to ice. “You seek to provoke me. That would be unwise, little man, for while I come from a simpler era than you, we didn’t lack for sophistication. You forget. Many of the great monuments of Rome were built by soldiers like me. And it would surprise you, the kind of things you have to learn to be able to complete such undertakings. The principles governing the use of alchemy and compounds, for example, are fraught with risk. Mixed in the correct sequence and right quantities, certain elements are quite safe to handle or imbibe. In the wrong measures, however, such substances may prove . . . troublesome.”

The menace in Decimus’s tone was evident. As was his meaning. He advanced on the hapless cavalry officer again, maintaining eye contact to add weight to his words.

Houston felt like a mouse caught in the gaze of a cobra. He stumbled backward.
Don’t you dare, you swine. You’ve already shamed me in front of my men once.
He struggled to keep the fear from showing on his face.

Decimus continued, “And we haven’t even considered the physical laws regarding inertia or fulcrums yet. My dear man, did you know that if you apply a minimal amount of pressure, in exactly the right place at the most opportune moment, seemingly immovable objects can be brought tumbling down?” His hand abruptly snaked out. Catching Houston squarely on the forehead with his index finger, Decimus caught his opponent off guard and dumped him onto his backside. The shock of the maneuver sent the wind whooshing from Houston’s lungs.

Cruel laughter split the thickening gloom.

The centurion looked around his men, and then back to Houston. Biting off each word, he snapped, “So no, little man. This isn’t the only way I know of to settle disputes. I can resort to any number of options, both physical and intellectual to put you in your place. Try my patience again, and I’ll demonstrate a more . . . inventive method to you.”

“Do what you want,” Houston retorted, “I’m glad I’ll never be like you. Lackey!”

The centurion shrugged, unconcerned by the riposte. “And so you should be,
murderer
. For under
our
law we would have gathered as a cohort to draw lots. Those chosen would have been given the responsibility of beating you to death. Only then would the reproach against our honor be cleansed. You might want to think on that before you resort to subterfuge in future.”

Decimus turned on his heel and stalked away. He was quickly followed by a gaggle of his officers, many of whom congratulated him slapping him heartily on the back.

Houston was distraught.

Wilson Smith and a number of soldiers from Second Platoon rushed to their fallen commander’s aid.

“That was uncalled for, Sir,” Sergeant Adam Wainwright spluttered, “and cowardly. You did well to control yourself.”

Control myself, my ass. That gorilla would have torn me apart.
“Thank you, Sergeant. It would seem not all officers are gentlemen. There’s a time and place to resort to violence. And that imbecile obviously doesn’t know the difference.”
But I do.

Houston noticed someone watching them from back in the shadows, by the utilities building.
Marcus Brutus?

Realizing he’d been spotted, Marcus strode confidently toward the tight knot of men until he stood before the disheveled captain. It looked to Houston as if the other man were on the verge of saying something, but then he obviously thought better of it. Sighing deeply, Marcus drummed the fingers of one hand against his thigh, and delivered a withering look that conveyed bitter disappointment.

Houston glanced down, noticing the action had left a smear of red and bronze paint on Marcus’s skirt. Before Houston could think of anything to say, Marcus shook his head, waved dismissively, and stalked from the scene.

“What do you make of that?” Wilson gasped. “Rudeness seems to be a requirement among their lot.” His sentiment was quickly echoed among the team.

Ignoring them, Houston glanced at the now empty building in front of him.
What were you doing in there?
A sudden impulse to check formed in his mind.

Acknowledging the crowd about him, Houston replied, “Well, what would you expect from rabble? Sergeant Wainwright? Corporal Mitchell? See the men safely back to their rooms, will you? Supper will be served soon, and I’d hate you to miss it just because I needed a bit of support.” He glanced at the guards from the first cohort hovering nearby. “Do it quickly before our sentries come running over and start prodding us with spears. Wilson, you go with them.”

Cocking a thumb toward the archive, he lowered his voice. “If anyone asks, tell them I need to cool down a little. So I’m tidying up in there and making sure everything’s ready for work tomorrow.”

“What are you doing really?” Wilson whispered.

“I want to check something out. Tell my escort I’ll only be a few minutes, and I’ll fill you in when I get back, okay?”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Murphy’s Law

Despite the nauseating sense of dislocation threatening to make him vomit, Mac took his time. He wanted to ensure he captured as much detail regarding this discovery as possible. Having completed his third sweep, he stared across the hold toward his comrade. He could see Sam was stunned by what they’d both just witnessed.

Not trusting the sound of his own voice, Mac flashed a hand signal, and they dragged themselves away from the cargo area. Once on the far side of the container, the overwhelming dizziness subsided.

Mac risked a final glance behind to ensure there were no more surprises coming their way.
The guys back at base will piss themselves silly. If the Horde can actually create these things, what’s to stop them opening a door within Rhomane itself?

Trying not to think too hard about the reality of such a nightmare, Mac struggled to his feet and checked his equipment.
Good. Everything appears to be in working order.
He waited for Sam to complete his own tests, then gestured again and lead the way toward the open hatch. They moved slowly, warily, just in case the beast was still lurking somewhere nearby. It wasn’t until they had descended the gantry and were safely outside that both soldiers heaved a huge sigh of relief.

“Jesus!” Sam gasped, “I thought my heart was going to leap from my mouth.”

“That’s nothing. Mine was beating so hard, I’m sure it’s cracked some of my ribs.”

“Was that one of their Bosses? A Horde Master?”

“It must have been. Crown and all.”

“But where is it?” Sam spun around in a slow circle. “It’s gone.”

Mac peered through his weapon’s scope, and scanned the hangars and pens for the elusive signs of Horde spore. Turning, he checked back toward the subway.

Nothing. I didn’t know they could move that fast. Unless . . .

“Sir? Are you there?” A suppressed but urgent query cut across his thoughts. Mac recognized the tone immediately.

“Mac?” the voice repeated. “This is bravo support team here, come in?”

“I hear you, Mark. Keeping tabs on us, were you?”

“That’s a yes. Is everything okay? We lost comms for several minutes. Then that spook ambled out of the door and made its way over to that disc-shaped craft behind you, the one at your five o’clock. We thought it had taken you out.”

Mac glanced behind him. The nanobots in his head helped him recognize the ship as an executive liner, the
Seranette
, once used to ferry Ardenese politicians to and fro between the colonies. “Do me a favor, Mark. Tag it for me, will you? You won’t believe what we discovered inside the shuttle. I’ll give you a sit-rep later. For now, your recording will form part of the intelligence package I’ll be putting together.”

“Will do,” Mark replied. He added, “Heads up, Boss. The skidder’s just emerging from the tunnel. Better haul ass before the civvies start getting twitchy.”

“On my way.”

*

“How goes it?”

Mohammed jumped. He’d been concentrating so diligently on the monitors before him that he hadn’t noticed Saul enter the room. “So far, so good. We lost contact with Lieutenant McDonald for a few minutes as his team passed through the tunnel, but he’s back on air now.”

“Problems?”

“None reported so far. Mac’s team is very thorough. Not only are they playing nursemaid, but they’re managing to collect a great deal of on-site intelligence that we might be able to use to our advantage at a later date.”

“Oh, really?” Saul asked, his interest piqued. “Such as?”

“Well, for start, we expected the place to be crawling with Horde, yes?”

“Go on.”

“That doesn’t appear to be the case. While the teams did encounter several dormant pockets on the way
to
the spaceport, once there, the facility was remarkably free of enemy activity.”

“Was it now?” Saul leaned in to take a closer look at the display.

“The only on-site location showing any sign of Horde concentration is the service subway leading to the safety apron.” Mohammed pointed to one of the video-link replays. “See there? That’s a record of what we’ve been sent so far. As the HUDs skip through their frequencies, watch how the presence of dreaming ogres is revealed.”

“Did you say ‘dreaming’?”

“Yes, I did. With no food source readily available, it appears our ever hungry friends have gone into fantasy-mode. In fact, Mac sent us a confidential communiqué on the matter. For some reason, he didn’t want to discuss it over the air. It’s on my console over there. I haven’t had time to read it yet. Mac’s checking out one of the ships left abandoned on the tarmac and I don’t want to miss the fun.”

“He’s what?” Saul spluttered.

“Oh, don’t worry. Mac and Sam are waiting for the skidder to join them, so they decided to take a quick look around inside that cargo vessel . . . there.” Mohammed tapped the screen to indicate which craft he was talking about. “Its hatch was open, and they informed me it would be a great opportunity to see what the layout is like. It might give us a head start if we ever manage to secure one for use in future operations.”