Outlanders 37 Rim of the World, page 17
With a groaning grunt of exertion, Philboyd lurched upright, spittle flecking his lips. He lunged away from the table, reaching for Lakesh. He stepped inside his arms and drove his left fist into the Philboyd's stomach. The astrophysicist jackknifed at the waist, and Lakesh glimpsed the flash of metal at the nape of his neck, where his skull joined with his spinal column.
Lakesh felt a surge of disgust when he noted the object's resemblance to an alloy-sheathed tick. Its body was not much larger than the nail of his pinkie finger. Legs no thicker than eyelashes curved out from all around the body, embedded deep in Philboyd's flesh.
The astrophysicist snatched a double fistful of Lakesh's bodysuit and the two men grappled with one another, staggering to and fro on wide-braced legs. He wrestled Philboyd in Domi's direction, snaking out a foot and back-heeling him so he fell backward on top of the trestle table.
Releasing his grasp on Lakesh's bodysuit, Philboyd planted a right hand under Lakesh's chin to force his head up and with the other gripped him tightly around the throat.
"Hit him!" Lakesh cried, voice muffled by Philboyd's hand.
Domi's face registered confused surprise. "What? I thought you said—"
"I know what I said!" Lakesh shouted impatiently, Philboyd's chokehold turning his voice strained and guttural. "When I pull him up, hit him on the back on the neck!"
Domi eased forward as Lakesh manhandled Philboyd into a sitting position. Her crimson eyes widened, then narrowed when she saw the tiny metal object attached to the astrophysicist's neck. Sharply but economically, she snapped the pipe lengthwise against the base of the man's skull. The sound of metal colliding with metal echoed sharply in the workroom.
Brewster Philboyd's body instantly became as slack limbed as that of a dummy filled with straw. His hands slid away from Lakesh's face and neck, his arms flopping bonelessly onto the tabletop.
Panting, Lakesh clutched at the front of Philboyd's bodysuit. To Domi he said, "Help me turn him over."
As the girl helped him muscle the unconscious man onto his stomach, she spoke in little bursts. "Got bad feeling about him after I shot up spider. At dinner I saw him watching me. Gave me creeps. Bothered me all night. Finally got up and looked for him. Found him here."
Under stress, Domi always reverted to the abbreviated mode of Outland speech. "He fool around with pieces of machine. Instincts told me not a good idea to let him."
She nodded toward a tray at the far end of the table. Lakesh saw the CEM crystal glowing among the litter of metal fragments that was all that remained of the cyberspider.
Lakesh smiled at her fondly, impressed once more by Domi's animal wisdom, which often perceived more than a human possibly could. "Your instincts were sound again."
Once Philboyd lay on his stomach, folded over the table, Lakesh examined the tick attached to the man's neck. The alloy casing was cracked, but the object was so small he couldn't secure a grip on it with his fingers. With the needle-nosed pliers Philboyd had used to dissect the cyberspider, he pinched the tiny body between the two tapered tips and carefully worked the tick loose.
"Ideally," he said, "we should perform this extraction in the infirmary, but I don't want to take the chance of exposing the rest of the redoubt to this thing in case it's not really inactive."
Domi rubbed her reddened throat. "Why did you come here this time of night?"
"Fortunately, I was called to the ops center. While speaking with Mr. Bry, he put a bug in my ear about the similarity between the Oubolus and the cyberspider."
The girl frowned. "Put bug in your ear? Bry gone crazy, too?"
He flashed her a fleeting grin. "Never mind, darlingest one. I was making a very small pun. And speaking of small—"
The tick came free of Philboyd's neck, leaving a precise oval- of tiny red pinpricks in the flesh. From the underside of the device trailed a hair-thin filament about four inches long, so delicate it was almost invisible. At its end glinted a tiny speck of crystal.
Domi eyed it suspiciously. "That little mite made him try to kill me?"
"More than likely, yes. Don't look so disbelieving, Domi. Think about all the miniaturized menaces we've come across over the years...the implant-delivery system incorporated into the ring of Genghis Khan, the Oubolous, the infrasound wands—"
"The nanites that made you young and horny," Domi interjected with a crooked grin. "Those still seem to be working."
"Yes, don't they just," he conceded in a sardonic drawl, holding the object trapped between the pliers points up to the light. "And almost all of those things have one thing in common...they originated with the Annunaki."
Domi did a poor job of repressing a shudder of loathing. "It all gets back to those damn snake-faces."
Lakesh's only response was a weary smile. Despite her oversimplification, he couldn't really dispute Domi's observation.
A low groan from Brewster Philboyd commanded their attention. Stirring feebly at first, he managed to prop himself up on his elbows after two faltering attempts. Domi stepped back half a pace, nervously patting the end of the pipe against her thigh. "Mebbe we should call a security detail just in case he gets all zombified again."
"What?" Philboyd croaked, his glazed eyes darting back and forth. "Zombi-what?"
Lakesh put a steadying hand under Philboyd's arm. "Try to stand up. Slowly now."
The lanky astrophysicist did so, blinking around dazedly. His legs wobbled and Lakesh eased him down on the edge of the table. Touching the back of his neck, Philboyd grimaced and then frowned at the little specks of fresh blood shining on his fingertips.
He glanced first at Lakesh, then at Domi. "What the hell happened?"
"I cold-cocked your ass," Domi chirped cheerfully, waggling the end of the pipe under his nose. "With this."
He squinted at it, then at Lakesh. "What the hell for?" He sounded bewildered, not upset.
"You didn't give us much choice," Lakesh stated. "Apparently, when you reactivated the cyberspider and it latched on to you, it wasn't attempting to harm you, but to implant you with one of its component units. If the robot couldn't complete its mission on its own, then it was programmed to find a host to which it could attach itself."
He moved the little metal tick caught between the tips of pliers close enough for Philboyd to see. "It jammed this little neural trip switch into you so it could interface with your cerebral cortex. I'm sure if we put it under our electron microscope, we'd find the absolute pinnacle of biotechnology."
Philboyd's face paled by several shades. Tentatively he touched the scratches on his face, and horrified comprehension suddenly glinted in his eyes. "Oh, my God. I remember now."
He turned toward Domi, reaching for her, but she leaned cautiously away from his touch. "I'm so sorry. Can you forgive me?"
She shrugged negligently. "Sure, why not?" She tapped the pipe against the palm of her hand meaningfully. "But don't expect me to be so understanding the next time you try to break my neck."
Lakesh frowned at her and she subsided. "Do you have any recollection of the task you were instructed to perform, friend Brewster?"
Philboyd rubbed the back of his neck again. "Bits and pieces. I recall looking for certain components of the machine that I could expose to the CEM...which I think would kick in its self-repair program so it could continue with the mission."
Domi arched a challenging eyebrow. "It would still be able to fix itself after I blew it to scrap metal? How?"
Lakesh and Philboyd exchanged swift glances, then both uttered the same word at the same time in the same dark tone. "Nanites."
Chapter 21
The sound of the explosion rolled through the night and roused Grant from his labored sleep. His eyes snapped open just as the room shook and dust sifted down over the mosquito netting that draped his sling bed.
Moonlight shone through one of the two open windows, casting broad squares of silver on the floor. Lifting his arm, he squinted at the glowing LCD face of his wrist chron, but a weight at the crook of his elbow prevented him from bringing it before his face.
Grant turned his head and stared into a pair of wide, open eyes shining like golden coins, only inches from his. Only then did he become fully aware of the weight of a naked thigh across his belly and the sweat-slick smoothness of bare breasts on his chest.
"What the hell—!" he half snarled, struggling to sit up.
"Please, Mr. Grant," Pakari whispered, clutching at him. "I'm so frightened!"
She wrapped her arms tightly around his waist as the sling bed swayed back and forth. "It's Laputara, he's shelling the village!"
As Grant came to full wakefulness, he felt the pressure of hard nipples digging into his side, but even if he was so inclined to comfort the girl by taking her into his arms, it was simply too hot to do more than disengage from her and stumble to his feet. He tore through the mosquito net, reaching for his clothes. Outside he heard shouting in Waziri and screams from children.
A second explosion sounded much closer, sending a shock wave slapping against Pakari's bungalow, rattling the walls. She stood up, as naked as he, eyes wide with fright. It took Grant a moment to force his eyes away from her, dismayed by her aura of sensuality, even though she was trying to project a sense of sheer terror. For some reason, he didn't think she had been truly frightened of much of anything since she was three years old.
Grant desperately struggled into his underwear and then into his pants, wanting to be dressed before any of his friends burst in and saw the nude princess. "What the hell are you doing here anyway?" he snapped at her.
She replied with a question of her own. "What do you think we should do?"
"I think we should put some clothes on."
Pakari's eyes narrowed at his stern tone. Her brown body flowed silently across the room, through a square of moonlight and out the far door. He couldn't help but admire the firm rondure of the rear end she turned toward him.
Within seconds of her exit, he heard the thump of running feet. He turned just as Kane sprinted through the other door, struggling to tug his black T-shirt over his head. The power holster for his Sin Eater dangled from his right hand.
"Laputara is shelling the Mantas," he announced tersely.
"I figured as much," Grant retorted, strapping his own weapon to his forearm. He decided to dispense with a shirt. "I guess we'd better go see about putting a stop to it."
As the two men sprinted out of the bungalow, they heard more shouting in the Waziri language, and above the clamor came the dull cramp of a mortar, followed a moment later by a third explosion. They met Brigid on the verandah, looking damnably clear-eyed and fresh. She inserted an extended 30-round magazine into the Copperhead she held and joined the run for the TAVs.
Kane saw small bursts of flame in the far distance as two mortars continued to launch explosive shells in the general direction of the grounded Mantas. Villagers stood outside their huts and although they milled about uncertainly, they didn't panic. They held crying children and stared at the fireballs blooming outside the village perimeter.
The lion-maned, spear-brandishing soldiers were in position at a wooden palisade like silent sentinels, taking no action, but not backing away, either. They didn't acknowledge the three outlanders who dashed past them onto the open veldt.
The angry trumpeting of the bull elephant in his enclosure echoed through the darkness. Grant said breathlessly, "Old N'gatawana isn't happy about having his sleep disturbed."
Kane's eyebrows quirked. "That elephant is named after the emperor?"
Brigid commented, "Pakari says he holds the essence of her father."
Uttering a short, panting laugh, Kane stated, "So when Pakari said Grant reminded her of her father, she wasn't necessarily referring to the king."
Although the face of the Moon was blotted out by small mushroom clouds of black smoke rising from craters in the ground, the Cerberus warriors saw by its illumination that the Manta ships were undamaged. A fountain of flame burst up from the ground within yards of the TAV Kane had piloted. Small rocks and clods of turf rattled noisily on the wings.
"Bastards are finding the range now," Grant panted between clenched teeth.
Kane wasn't overly concerned about mortar shells inflicting irreparable damage on the Manta ships since the hulls, although they looked like bronze, were composed of a substance far more dense and resilient. Still, the possibility existed that direct hits could wreak enough damage to disable them.
Earlier in the day, upon their return from the Usumbur Tract, the three of them had removed all the ordnance from the TAV's cargo compartments, which included extra ammunition, survival rations, weapons and additional equipment.
Princess Pakari had assigned a group of laborers to repair Old 88, following blueprints provided by Inkula. Another work crew was charged with the task of chopping enough logs for fuel. Kane had no idea of the progress of the crews or if they had stopped upon hearing the mortar attack. Both Inkula and Pakari had dismissed out of hand the likelihood of Laputara braving the dangers of the tract at night. Inkula claimed that despite his aggressive manner, he was superstitious in the extreme.
Kane, Brigid and Grant came to a halt, and crouched, eyes searching the shadow-shrouded savannah for the mortar emplacements. The expanse of rough, uneven grasslands, dotted here and there by clumps of thorn trees, didn't provide a great deal of cover, but it was sufficient for the wilderness-born like Laputara's troopers. They saw a small flare in the darkness to their north, followed by a mushy pop, like the bursting of a wet paper bag.
Less than three seconds later, a dazzling flare and ear-knocking concussion nearly bowled them off their feet. Dirt blown out of the crater rained down over them. Spitting out grit, Kane said grimly, "The bastards are really finding the range."
Fanning the acrid smoke away from her face, Brigid said, "The best tactic is for one of you to get airborne and knock out the emplacements from the air."
Knuckling his stinging eyes, Grant said, "Who gets the honor?"
A quick game of rock-paper-scissors determined that Grant would be the one to take flight. As he turned toward his Mama, nearly a dozen shadows detached themselves from the night.
They had been surprisingly stealthy in their approach, rising from declivities in the ground that were hidden by the waist-high grasses. They fanned out in a wedge. If Grant hadn't chosen that instant to turn around, Laputara's troopers would have gotten the drop on them. The men looked crazed, like a madman's dream of a military unit. Each of the men wore part of a uniform, old olive-green field jackets, battered combat boots without laces, but kept on their feet by multiple twistings of twine and vines, but other than that, they were naked but for brief loincloths.
Their bare chests shone darkly under the jackets as if oiled, their brown faces distorted by the heavy welted scars of warrior rituals. Strings of hacked-off human fingers, dried and turned to the consistency of leather, hung from their throats. "Quick!" Grant snapped. "Back to the village!"
They wielded long knives, but the man in the lead carried a British Army revolver by a long lanyard around his neck. The ten troopers were like the epitome of the worst of two worlds blended and merged into a frightening whole. Even by the uncertain light shed by the Moon, the Cerberus warriors saw how the pupils of their eyes were inhumanly enlarged.
As they wheeled around, a solid wall of men dressed in the same savage half-uniforms rose from the high grasses. They all had the same long knives in their belts and different makes of firearms in their hands.
"It's a trap!" Kane bit out, his Sin Eater slapping into his hand. "They're fused out, flying high on something!" The men charged from both sides, shouting a wild medley of Waziri and wordless-screams, tightening a cordon around them with stunning swiftness. They surged forward, blades flashing. Brigid lifted her Copperhead, finger curling around the trigger as she stroked a long burst from it. She didn't even think about shooting to incapacitate.
When the troopers realized the three outlanders had seen them, they screamed like dying hyenas. A knife hissed through the air, barely missing Brigid's right shoulder and burying itself in the ground behind her. The knife thrower screamed again, this time in frustration. A trooper's war cry ended in a gargled grunt as a storm of 4.85 mm rounds tore blood-bursting gouges in his throat and knocked him backward. Miniature volcanoes erupted crimson sprays all over his torso. He fell heavily, but with sudden concert and fierce, terrifying animal cries his companions rushed among them in a wave.
Kane squeezed off a tri-burst, but he aimed at the troopers' knees, keeping in mind that Laputara's followers were still Waziri. One of the men fell howling and screeching headfirst, clawing at his right leg. Another pirouetted away and fell heavily, disappearing from view in the tall grass. One of the Africans fell, struck by a shot from Grant's Sin Eater, then the clarity of the situation changed. Instead of easy-to-see targets, the veldt became a blur of bodies and mad movement, separating the three outlanders from one another.
Laputara's troopers, barbarians and drugged though they might be, had an instinctive grasp of tactics. They spread out across the area, some trying to cut their quarry off from a retreat. Although their blasters were old, they knew how to use them, but fortunately not very accurately.
Shots cracked and boomed. A bullet thumped past Kane's ear, and another tugged at the longish hair at the nape of his neck. He dived into a depression in the plain, his finger pressing the trigger of his Sin Eater. Three bullets took a trooper's left ear off, bit into his neck and hammered him between the eyes, blowing out the back of his skull in a gouting slop of blood, bone chips and brain matter.
Brigid dropped to one knee and brought her Copperhead to her shoulder, and squeezed off short bursts, not wanting to hose the ammo around in a full-auto stream for fear of hitting Grant and Kane. The short staccato hammering of gunfire interwove among yells and screams.
A tonga short sword swiped at Brigid and with the sharp ring of steel against steel, the Copperhead was plucked from her hands. The tip of the blade slashed it from her grip as neatly as if it had been used as a scythe to cut off the head of a flower.
