Chapter LXIII
In Which Railroad Calamity Strikes
I am uncertain what feverish combination of neurons inspired Madam Rabinovich to suggest taking a deeper look at the papers we had surreptitiously acquired from the draft table in the newly excavated temple, but I embraced the serendipity voraciously. Hidden amongst the various rubbings that had been taken from the walls was one of Herr Auer’s stash of ancient documents pertaining to the Temple of Anshar – a copy of an Akkadian manuscript detailing the final doomed days of the place of worship. This fortuitous discovery came accompanied with none other than Herr Auer’s own translation of the cuneiform, rescuing me from the arduous task of doing the work by hand (no easy feat given my lack of a dictionary to look up the numerous symbols that make up the Sumerian-***-Akkadian writings).
I suspect female intuition.
As before, I shall spare the reader the work of translating the Akkadian himself, or Auer’s German, and provide an English translation of Auer’s writings; the reader would do well to remember that this is but a translation for his benefit, and that I had this in German:
“Earth to Mars…”
I had been so involved in studying the ramifications of this tale of the Temple’s destruction that I had not noticed Madam Rabinovich’s quiet approach. My focus had been entirely downwards – my body hunched and my hat tipped forward to protect my forehead and eyes from the heat and light of the campfire – and as it were, the only thing I saw of her presence was a pair of blistered bare feet in my peripheral vision.
“Time travel has been most unkind to your feet, madam,” I observed without looking up. I was mentally comparing this document with De Sarzec’s article – the very one that started me on this journey – and trying to determine exactly what was history and what was mythology. This has never been an easy task.
“No more than it has been to your knee, dear man,” she replied, and a thick knee-brace was thrust into my field of vision, obscuring my work.
I grunted acknowledgment of her generosity and slid the offending bandage on my lap, underneath the papers. It was rude of me, I must confess, but I felt there was something immensely important about the “protection of Anshar” and bit about “gods and forces.”
“Nothing conducive?” Her voice was prodding, in her usual manner, managing to squeeze a sentence full of skepticism into a mere fragment.
“I do recall saying something along those lines,” I answered, while my train of thought traversed a different landscape entirely. It passed through the station of “history of magic,” veered around the “jealous nature of ancient deities,” and was bearing down on the junction of conclusions.
“Of course.” Skepticism went hand-in-hand with sarcasm. “And that is why you didn’t wish Garent good night, managed to speak at me without speaking to me, and your head hasn’t lifted a centimeter. You’re reminding me of Sasha,” she accused, using the Russian nickname for her husband, “only, he acts like this regardless of whether his new gadget is actually interesting.”
Derailed.
I looked up at her, and gave her an apologetic smile. “You will have to pardon my transgressions against propriety, but I have indeed found something that I suspect will be very useful to our cause.” I held the two documents aloft with much fanfare. “I present to you an Akkadian text and its translation, courtesy of our Fifth Columnist chessmaster.”
She took the papers from my hands and stared at the old cuneiform, her eyes momentarily going cross-eyed. While she had some familiarity with the Semitic language of the Akkadians, the writing was about as useful as Chinese to her. She switched to the German translation and started reading.
“How very interesting,” she uttered upon completion, finally taking a seat beside me on the wooden log. “You think that Auer thinks this is fairly accurate?”
“Indeed.” I gave her a look of triumph. “Everything else here are rubbings – and I mean everything – so that means he specifically brought this in with him. He would not do that unless it was somehow important to this little endeavor, and what’s important to him is important to us.”
“Which would be this gem,” she concluded, before proceeding to follow along the same lines of that had plagued me just moments before. “It could not only fend off hazardous climates, but keep away magic and psionics. With it on hand, the Fifth would easily take down the Council and get a nice leg up on the rest of competition.” A wry look crossed her face. “Arachnos would be devastated.”
It took me a moment to reply, as my mind was neatly putting the cars back onto the track. The conductor announced that gods of yore were particular exclusive in terms of their chosen peoples, and regularly fought off the gifts granted by their competition. And the Mu, as Madam Rabinovich had just pointed out, were one of the many beneficiaries of the greatest deific gift of all: magic. Cutting off other gods meant cutting off magic, exactly like we had been seeing since we arrived. The train reached its destination and I felt the warm glow of new sense of purpose.
Removing the gem from its place in the temple will bring back magic.
“With you and the Kushans running around, he’s probably been reluctant to take it out himself,” Madam Rabinovich announced, as per her regular habit of responding to conversations that are taking place entirely within her head.
“I beg your pardon, madam?”
She gave me a pained little smile. Unlike her husband and myself, who are strong deductive thinkers (the physicist far more than I), she is an inductive thinker, and the inner workings of her mind are a mystery to me. She has a reciprocal difficulty in addressing us, as she finds it strange that other people are not following the same mysterious connections as those that bubble to the fore of her consciousness – a small gift from her inner self.
“I had been wondering for some time,” she explained, “why Auer hadn’t finished his job and left. Or why he hasn’t taken control of the gem. I first chalked it up to problems returning to our home time, but my guess now is that he’s worried about returning your powers to you.” There was a momentary gleam of wickedness in her pale eyes. “He wouldn’t last the night.”
“No,” I disagreed, my voice cold steel, “his men would all perish within minutes, but Auer would not be nearly so fortunate.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Another classic Greco-Roman torture?”
I smiled. This was a regular jest between us. “I’ll be sure to be more creative than vultures and boulders.”
“You do that.” She laughed for a short bit, then immediately sobered up, the abruptness of which caught my attention. “But first, we need to come up with a plan to get that gem removed.”
“Indeed.” I peered at her suspiciously. “Do you have something in mind?”
“It’ll take a little more creativity than vultures and boulders…”
Then the conversation segued somewhat; about that later.
Global @Diellan - 5M2M
Mids' Hero/Villain Designer Lead
Virtue Server
Redside: Lorenzo Mondavi
Blueside: Alex Rabinovich
Got a Mids suggestion? Want to report a Mids bug?
((The Alien Box Invasion has been defeated! Also, Writer Number I is out of the army now, and we return to our regular, three-day schedules.
--Dylan and Genia))
Chapter LXIV
In Which A Cunning Plan Goes Unexpectedly Awry, Again
In the morning, as something of a portent for things to come, we all awoke with a headache. It could have been the drink, but even Garent was robbing at his temples absently, as though to get rid of a minor nuisance. As for me, my head mostly ached from lack of sleep. Rostov seemed a touch wild-eyed with hangover. Or perhaps with anticipation, it was hard to say.
I packed my bag and sorted through it carefully, rewinding bandages, counting supplies and otherwise organizing my personal worst-case scenarios. Our plan, as much of it as we managed to compile last night despite the many obstacles, was rather simplistic; Rostov was to dress in the uniform of a Fifth Columnist that he and Lorenzo killed yesterday – the one with the least obtrusive bullet holes in it – and walk into the temple. There, if he could, he would firstly open the entrance for Lorenzo, Garent and I, and then go seeking after Victor while we went below and worked on the key.
“Just don’t turn your back on anybody,” I pinned down the dead soldier’s insignia while Rostov fastened the straps and neck pads of the helmet.
“I never do. I hear it’s a Fifth Column working health hazard.” His voice was hollow inside the helmet and slightly metallic. “Not covered by the health plan, hehe.”
“I meant to say,” I muttered drily, “that there’s a big bullet hole on the back of your neck.”
“Damn.” He slapped the back of his shoulder where a gash from his own rifle bullets tore into the silksteel fabric of the uniform. I examined it, wondering if we could take the few minutes necessary for me to sew the tear shut, at least (if we could, we should). But, sadly, silksteel is not easily fixed with regular needle and thread, and I certainly didn’t carry around armour-crafting instrumentation.
“You remember how to get there, right, Sofia?”
“Just make sure it’s open on time,” I said patiently. “We’ll do the rest.”
“Sure, sure,” he hefted one of the Fifth Column salvaged rifles; a large specimen with a thick, almost comic barrel which looked like it was specifically designed to make military people laugh. They’d still be laughing when they bled to death, or when the membranes in their ears popped and their eyes came gushing out.
“I’m sure you’ve figured on that,” Lorenzo commented, “but we’re all fairly certain that Auer would be keeping a very close eye on your brother. If you find one, the other should not be too far away. In an adjoining room, perhaps.”
“I’ll just follow the explosions,” I could hear the smirk in Rostov’s voice, even though his face was hidden entirely behind a bug-mask.
“Just be sensible, Kushan,” Lorenzo admonished, looking up from his own intent cleaning of weapons. We might have lacked tablespoons and glasses, but Rostov always carried around a weapon maintenance kit in his pockets. I could only be grateful for the capacious nature of his pockets, though, since shooting seemed an inevitable necessity, and shooting a dirty gun a bad idea. The magazine slid into its place with a soft, oily click.
“Don’t worry, Lorenzo. I know all kinds of military theory. Who was it who said that the point is not to die for your country, but to make the other poor sucker die for his?”
“Patton,” I said softly. “Not in quite these words.”
“Smart man, Patton.”
“One of us should see you get in,” I shuffled my legs tiredly, steadying myself with a hand on a tree trunk. I still ached and trembled from the large amounts of walking, unaided, I had done yesterday. Running around in dark alleys mugging helpless women did not help, either. I wanted to sprawl for a few more hours, at least…
I glanced at Garent and Lorenzo and sighed resignedly. “I’ll walk you.”
We walked to the curb in the road mostly in silence. I was, on the whole, too occupied by trying to keep up with Rostov’s long, eager strides, which he did not curb for my sake. From time to time, I had to almost run to keep up and by the time that Shubat Anshar came into view in the distance, brown and muddy and squat, a large terra-cotta amoeba.
“Okay,” Rostov was even more laconic than usual “See me come through, then take everybody else in while I do my thing.”
I nodded. “Just don’t get yourself killed during the brief period when you actually can.”
“Right now,” he said and slammed the butt of the large Fifth Column rifle he wore at his side, “it’s an acceptable risk.”
There wasn’t much I could say to that.
Rostov departed at a brisk walk, and I sat down cross-legged by the side of the road, watching his progress. The road as far as the eye could see was empty and silent. If it had not been so before Rostov approached, big rifle rocking gently at the crook of his arm, it rapidly became so when he strode past.
I watched him go until he disappeared down the road. I couldn’t tell, from where I sat, whether he made it into the city or not, but Rostov being Rostov, I supposed he had. The soldiers at the gates were bored, perfunctory and slightly confused; all traits which contributed neatly to the general lassitude. People who could not assess the level of threats within the local populace and so, on the one hand, were likely to dismiss any and all weapons but guns as unimportant, and on other others would simply be relieved to see a person who looked, and spoke, like they did.
I hoisted myself up slowly, grinding the point of my umbrella into the packed dirt, and returned back to the camp. .
“Did Rostov make it?” Garent inquired.
“I didn’t think it was necessary to look. Especially since we’re in a bit of a hurry.”
“Not that much of a hurry,” Lorenzo said wryly, pointing to the east, where Rostov had disappeared just a few minutes ago. “Look.”
A tall, dark shape in Fifth Column uniform, totting a rifle, was approaching rapidly, almost running down the slope. Its helmet was off.
Rostov’s hair was in disarray from the running around, and he was breathing hard. For someone in his condition to react in such a manner, he would have had to run all the way from the city. Considering the time that had elapsed since I saw him last – perhaps twenty minutes, in all, considering my own plodding return to the camp – he practically had.
All three of us were on our feet faster than we could inhale. Lorenzo moved instantly, not bothering with his cane, lunging forward to meet Rostov halfway, drawing his gun as he went. I stopped only long enough to grab Garent’s hand, practically twirl him around, and the two of us started off together at a lurching run, my umbrella scraping and tapping on gravel and dirt.
“Kushan!” Lorenzo called out. “What happened?”
“No helmets!” Rostov came to a panting halt, and tossed his own useless helmet down in frustration. “No helmets, dammit. Not the guards at the gate. Not the patrols around it.”
That stopped us cold. The entire plan hinged on the simple assumption that Rostov could pass unrecognized inside the city and gain entrance to the temple. It wasn’t a sophisticated plan, but it was quite solid. Under a helmet, Rostov’s tall frame and heavyset build would merge into the crowd, and he was entirely capable of passing himself for one of the many young, belligerent, xenophobic bigots who sought employment with the Fifth. He had no gaps in his knowledge that they could exploit; most of Auer’s men were American, and, in the words of the man himself, about as competent with German as Rostov.
Now we had to come up with something else that would not get all of us killed.
“We were too late,” Lorenzo grimaced. “Auer must have finally gotten the reports about the missing outpost, and the dead patrol. With his sighting of Madam Rabinovich in the city, it would only stand to reason that he would consider the disappearing uniforms.”
“That’s very nice,” Garent wiped his face exasperatedly, rubbing at his eyes with a tired, annoyed swipe of the back of his hand, “but that doesn’t help us come up with something new.”
“We can still get into the city,” Rostov pointed out. “However it was you were gonna do that when I was out.”
“Into the city, perhaps,” Lorenzo frowned, “but not into the temple. Our purpose is the gem, and the gate to the future. And that is inside the temple. What use would the city be to us, aside from a death-trap?”
“Nothing,” Garent shrugged. “So looks like we’re back where we were, taking Fifth out one by one, and trying not to die.”
“No way,” Rostov clenched and unclenched his fist. If he were anybody else, he would be pounding it. “Auer knows we’re here. If he’s not gonna make Vic pay for every soldier we kill he’s a lot stupider than he’s acted till now. No… If we don’t come up with anything else, I’m gonna try for a commando op tonight, as soon as it gets dark.”
“No,” Lorenzo and I spoke together. This was the first thing I’d said in the conversation; the plans and possibilities were washing over me like waves, and like in waves, I was drowning in them. Apparently my swimming ability in frustrated dialogue is an approximate equivalent of my swimming ability in real water. But that one hit me like a soaked life-preserver. Rostov was right, though: everything we do out here would come out of his brother’s skin. We needed to get into that temple fast.
I clutched Garent’s arm.
“All we need is to get into the temple, right?”
“I think so, madam,” Lorenzo looked at me, his eyes moving slowly as though he were shifting gears for a surprise turn on the road. “What makes you bring it up?”
“Just the temple. Not the city, nor the soldiers in it?” I insisted. “We don’t care about the end of the universe or a temporal paradox; we just want the temple?”
“Anshar is about to be destroyed, at some point in the next fifty years, perhaps as much as a hundred. All evidence or anachronisms will be wiped out. Nothing that happens inside the city should have minimal affect on history in the long run.”
“So, just the temple.”
“Yes, Sofia!” Garent snapped impatiently, the stress and frustration coming through momentarily in his temper. We were all, I reminded myself, wound too tight with fuses grown far too short. “What’s wrong with you today?”
“You tell me,” I said, still not letting go of his wrist. I was leaving pressure marks on his arm but, just for the moment, I didn’t really care. “What’s the fastest way to get into that temple?”
“Well,” he snickered, reaching out to loosen my hand. “I guess we could just walk up and knock on the door and get caught. But that’s just—“
I turned to him, smiling widely with a manic, crooked grin. “Exactly, Garent. Exactly.”
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter LXV
In Which a Volunteers Commits to the Gambit With the Proper Posture
“Wait, no. I didn’t mean it like that!” Garent protested.
“You were brilliant,” I said encouragingly. “You went exactly where I wanted you to go, and you were absolutely right going there.”
“Sofia…”
“Madam, it might be a stroke of brilliance, but it’s much too risky. Kushan might be killed.”
“Gah!” Garent groaned, shaking his head rapidly from side to side as though trying to get something despicably nasty out of his hair. “She wasn’t talking about Rostov. I can tell.”
“Rostov might very well be killed on sight,” I agreed easily. “We wouldn’t want that.”
“Then who-- no.” The others were finally catching on. The thought was so preposterous, it took a few minutes to settle down and, at the moment, none of them were thinking – only reacting. I couldn’t blame them; the entire plan was the result of a moment’s inspiration where everything, from beginning to end, was made clear.
I slid down to sit on a rock, and waited for the initial storm to blow over.
I was never much of a chess player. My husband, the mathematician, is quite good at it. He could boast victories; I could only boast not losing spectacularly. I was an indifferent player at best and, when opportunity permitted, much preferred to leave the black-and-white board to the men. But we all played a different sort of chess – the chess of human minds and emotions. And on that much larger chessboard I could hold my own. This chess game was not building up in our favour, but it could still be won, if the right strategies were employed, and the right chesspieces were dispatched. I could see it.
It merely so happened that I was the pawn.
“You might very well be killed on sight, too,” Garent said snappishly.
“I might,” I concurred, shrugging uncomfortably. “But I might not. I might be underestimated.”
“That would only mean they will kill you a little later, once their estimate proves wrong,” Lorenzo said dryly.
I nodded silently, conceding the point, and waited. The waiting took a long time as all three of them racked their minds for other options. It was rather sweet, really, they were so used to protecting me from extreme risks that, to some small degree, they’ve come to believe I was weak. But now strength, in the way we understood the terms, counted for very little, and the ability to protect anyone from anything was nonexistent.
“If a hostage is what is wanted,” Lorenzo said finally, obviously displeased “I should be the one to go.”
“Why you?” Rostov was impassive. The notion of unpleasant decisions was not particularly foreign to any of us, but he, perhaps more than anyone else, had, at present a specific goal in mind. If he could not find a perfect route to the goal, he would take the merely convenient one. Nevertheless, he wanted all the details ironed out.
“Obviously, because Auer wants me above and beyond anybody else. I should make the perfect hostage for the man’s vanity.”
“You are not expendable,” I said simply.
“And you are?”
“For the moment.” I traced a thoughtful finger on the packet of papers lying on the ground at our feet. The implications were obvious; we needed Lorenzo free to act, so that he would be able to interpret the cuneiform – something of which I had no knowledge at all – and then, perhaps, operate the mechanism which allowed time travel. He should be the one to take possession of the gem.
“I should think, with minor alterations, our plan would work just as well as before,” I said briskly. “Instead of Rostov going and opening the passage, I will do it. You three will wait outside as was the plan, and we’ll proceed as usual.”
“What if you get caught and can’t get out, or what if they decide to kill you as revenge?” Rostov inquired sarcastically.
They’ll kill me anyway, I knew but didn’t say, or think. I clutched the handle of my umbrella-walking stick painfully till my knuckles went white, but Lorenzo and Rostov were too busy plotting to notice, and the pain in my knuckles obfuscated my thoughts from Garent’s reach. But not, I thought, before I could wreck havoc inside. The notion didn’t bother me as much as one might think; I was a little fey, my emotions drowned by the sort of adrenaline rush one gets when one slams headfirst into a bungee jump.
“Perhaps a diversion…?” Lorenzo suggested thoughtfully. “If we were to split up, and, say, cause a little noise…”
“That makes sense,” Rostov rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and I winced in displeasure. That method increased my chances, perhaps, but did little to aid theirs. Rostov smirked in eerie delight. “That would make sure they’ll look at someone bigger, wouldn’t it?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Like you?”
“I wouldn’t want them to be shortchanged,” Rostov smirked, and the rest of us winced painfully. I winced perhaps a little more painfully than the rest, contemplating my stature, all meter-and-sixty of it from toe to the disheveled crown of hair on my head. Comparing it mentally to the two-meter soldiers crowding the temple really did not present itself as favourable, right then and there.
I looked down at Auer’s papers and rubbings again. None of the translations, at least, offered much in the way of information regarding the temple’s layout. Most of them- aside from the prophecy account from last night – were general designations of priestly routines, and some scripture-like writing about the glory of Anshar. The Akkadians and Sumerians were not like the Egyptians – they kept their history, their most important things, not on walls in plains sight, but on tablets, stashed away and preserved. A culture of libraries and words. Not of pictures and monuments.
“The hardest part,” Lorenzo was saying gravely when I lifted my head from the papers again, “would be for madam Rabinovich to escape after she is caught, and cross the temple. I do not see what we can do about that.”
“Nothing.” I flicked a hand at the concerned looks the men – including Garent, who somehow managed a concerned look without looking – gave me. “I am going to have to improvise. Perhaps,” I smirked, “I can make, ahem, short work of the little nooks and crannies in there.”
“Ow!” Garent covered his ears theatrically.
I murmured, “I do beg your pardon,” and looked on unrepentantly.
Banter, though empty, was good. Banter kept my mind off of how risky an endeavour this truly was, and how badly dependent on luck. In my entire life, if I could avoid doing that which involved luck, I did; my luck all too often ran sour.
“Okay,” Rostov roused me from my reading only a few minutes later “We should move out. I’ll walk you up over there, and see that you got in.”
“Very well,” I gripped my umbrella and used it to level myself up to my feet.
“Whoa,” Rostov stared at the long, black object in my hand and rolled his eyes. “You can’t take that. You’ll get caught.”
“I want to get caught, Rostov,” I reminded him gently.
“Not until you’re in the city, you don’t. If you come in through the gates, not even a microbe will be able to make it inside after you and we, if you didn’t notice,” he gestured at the three of them, standing in a loose semicircle with Garent at my elbow, “are a little bigger than a bacteria.”
“I can’t leave it, either,” I said, displeased.
Garent bent down, and picked up the woven straw basket which I used to bring food only last night. He offered it to me quietly. “Perfect,” I told him, and slipped my umbrella inside. The curved black handle was barely peeking out of the loose straw and hemp. I strapped the basket to my back, tying it to with a piece of cord and wondered whether I should bother with a few more items.
Probably not. I will be searched thoroughly, I felt certain, and there was no use handing the Fifth anything they didn’t already have.
I held out the packet of documents to Lorenzo, and guided Garent’s hand to rest on his arm.
“Don’t get yourself killed,” he said with outward calm, but his hold on my hand was a death-grip.
“I’ll do my best,” I smiled, and pulled away. Then, remembering in the last second, I lifted the strap of my precious first aid kit from my shoulders, and passed it carefully over his head. He blinked and touched the strap as though he wasn’t sure what it was. “Here you go. You get to carry it till we meet up.”
“You shouldn’t go,” he said a little dully, staring down. I reached out and turned him a little to face me.
“Remember what I told you in Vienna?” I lifted his chin with my free hand until he was looking-not looking straight at me. “Head up, back straight. I’ll see you gentlemen later.”
I spun on my heel, and walked off towards the city, without turning back. After a while Rostov caught up with me.
After a while longer, he swerved off and I continued on my own.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter LXVI
In Which it is Best Not to Follow Orders
Shes in.
Mister Ward and I released a collective sigh of relief as Rostov Kushan returned from his lookout point. While her getting captured had been part of the plan, it wasnt supposed to happen until she was already inside the city; being caught on the outside would lead suspicious eyes towards the gates and the field, at best, or lead to her being shot by a Columnist with an itchy trigger finger, at worst.
My blind companion shuddered, reminding me once again of the necessity to find a way to restore magic so that I can re-establish the wards around my thoughts.
Sorry, he murmured, slightly withdrawing in on himself.
I turned back to Mister Kushan, hoping for both our sakes that he had not noticed the incident, and replied, Are you ready to begin?
He snorted. I was born ready. The question is: are you two?
A little overdramatic, Ros? Mister Ward clutched the makeshift robe we had made from one of the horse blankets and wrapped it tightly around himself. We didnt have adequate disguises for our trek to the temple, but at least the drab colors and strong horse smells would keep the warwolf from discovering us prematurely.
Kushan grinned. Lorenzo supplied the question and it was just begging for that answer. What can I say? Im a sucker for action films.
Why does that not surprise me?
Gentlemen, we have twenty-two minutes. I declared as I returned my pocketwatch to the inside of my jacket. We should begin shortly.
We finished eliminating the signs of our presence from the shomera and took a long, circular route to the gate of the city; in order for our ploy to work, we needed to appear as if we came from the pass to the west, where we had just ambushed some Fifth Columnists the day before. Rostov Kushan was fully decked out in the stolen uniform with helmet on and rode on one of the horses we had stolen. Mister Ward and I walked on foot, our hands tied together in a deceptively loose knot.
It was a rather simplistic plan, highly abused in most forms of entertainment media, but the average Fifth Columnist never struck me as particularly quick-witted. Besides, the ruse only needed to last long enough
Since two of us were on foot and pretending to be thoroughly beaten and injured, it took a not-insignificant amount of time to reach the front gate. The pair of guards appeared to eye us with suspicion, but kept their rifle slack at their sides.
Hey! Kushan shouted as we approached. Look what I caught!
The two guards looked at each other, and said some words which I did not catch, then turned back. What?
I said, look what I caught! When we reached a few dozen meters, he dismounted and ordered the pair of us to march ahead of him. He kept the stolen Fifth Columnist rifle leveled at us. These two sons of ******* killed the rest of my squad, along with their big friend. Once I put a bullet through that thick bastards head, these two surrendered.
The pair looked to each other again, but my mercenary friend is no fool, and knows that part of a successful con is to prevent the victim from getting time to think and to make suspicious behavior appear normal, so he immediately went on: Hey, whatre you guys doing helmetless? Its damn dangerous!
Didnt you hear? One of them replied, mindlessly falling for the bait. Weve got orders from on high that everybodys supposed to go helmetless. Theyre worried that whoever killed Squad Drei and Outpost Fluss will try and masquerade as us. He scratched his chin and looked us over. I guess not.
Goddamn idiots! Rostov Kushan swore, shaking his head. These guys had guns, and if it wasnt for my helmet, the cheeky short one wouldve blown my brains out.
Ordersre orders, the other one said profoundly, sounding slightly nervous, and weve got to follow em. That includes you.
Thats too bad.
A pair of suppressed gunshots rang through the air and the guards collapsed. Beyond them, a small group of Akkadians who had been waiting for their turn to try and leave the city stood in shock, staring at the bodies.
Nice shots, I said as I casually undid the knot around my wrists. Rostov Kushan merely winked at me with his cybernetic eye as he put his pistol back in its holster. No commotion yet
Yeah. He looked up and down the walls to both sides. How long weve got until security steps up might be longer than we hope. His gaze then focused on the crowd on the other side of the threshold. Unless these monkeys go ******* on us.
The crowd cringed under his gaze and started to fall back, most of them trying to do so without being noticed. Luckily, it was too small a group to go into a full-fledged mob panic. The fact that we were talking amongst ourselves and not shooting at them probably helped.
We dragged the bodies to the wall alongside the gate such that they would only be seen from outside the city, and by the time we had returned, the crowd had taken the opportunity to flee. The three of us passed through the threshold cautiously, wary for any incoming soldiers.
How much time do we have left? Mister Ward asked, one hand holding the robe tightly around himself and the other gripping my arm. He was having troubles hiding his mounting fear, no doubt due to his inability to watch out for dangers on his own.
Thirty minutes or so, Mister Kushan replied, his gaze wandering from the temple in the distance to the rooftops to the alleyways. You remember where to go?
I gave him a long look. Of course, Mister Kushan.
Ah, right, eidetic memory. He snickered. I always forget.
I rolled my eyes. Leave the bad jokes to your brother.
Ouch. That hurts. He feigned a wound and limped over to the alleyway, shouting over his shoulder. Catch you on the flip side!
I watched him disappear into the alleyway. According to the plan, he would take one route to the temple while Mister Ward and I would take another. If one was caught, they were to make as much noise as possible fighting off the Fifth that it would draw all attention to that one spot and allow the other to arrive unhindered and Madam Rabinovich to carry out her part of the plan.
It was exceedingly dangerous and extremely risky, but all we needed was for just one of us to make it to the inner chamber of the temple and to deactivate the magic dampening field or find a return passage home. With magic, we could cheat death.
I winced and suppressed an age-old and long forgotten memory. Sometimes, it is best not to try.
Mister Ward stumbled and I grimaced, hoping he did not catch any of that particular memory. Not even Madam Rabinovich was privy to the particulars of my fated marriage. I stamped my cane and began heading down a different alley.
Im sorry
I glanced at him and kept a firm grip on my thoughts. Perhaps I could learn to shield myself naturally, like Madam Rabinovich does. Think nothing of it, Mister Ward. It cannot be helped.
But it can! His voice was fraught with frustration. Its just
All my control is lost. Im slipping and fumbling around and I have to grab on to your thoughts tight or they slip away entirely
Shh. I put a finger to my lips in a useless gesture. Keep your voice down. English will draw attention. And as I said: think nothing of it.
Oh, right
He sighed heavily. I just
I just want to help
I resisted stopping and staring at him, though the weight of the plaintive cry threatened to drag me down to the ground. As much as the young man needed a long discussion about his situation, now was not the time. Though perhaps some brevity might do in a pinch
Actually, Mister Ward, there is something I could use your assistance with
Oh? He sounded skeptical.
Indeed. I suppressed a grin. What does catch you on the flip side mean?
Global @Diellan - 5M2M
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Redside: Lorenzo Mondavi
Blueside: Alex Rabinovich
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Chapter LXVII
In Which History is Reviewed and References Exchanged
We saw our first patrol a few minutes later, but they were casual and not truly paying attention to their surroundings. While I considered eliminating the four of them and thus further reducing the seemingly endless supply of troops at their disposal I decided that stealth was far more important, and we remained hidden in an alley as they passed.
The people themselves seemed content and focused on their daily lives, completely uncaring that a paramilitary fascist organization patrolled their streets and ran their government.
Compared to what? Mister Ward asked.
Touché. I gave him a half-smile. It is strange how such behaviors are so in-grained into our psyche that they came unwillingly, even when dealing with a person whom I know cannot observe them. I have chided Madam Rabinovich in the past for waving her hands while speaking on the phone, a trait that many Eastern European societies use quite heavily, and it seems that even I am susceptible to such meaningless gestures.
At this point in history, I continued, this area should be under the control of legates of the Akkadian Empire. When Sargon of Akkad took control of the cities of Sumer, he replaced the minor nobilities that had previously retained governorship with his own men: specifically people of merit and loyalty who had no noble family, and thus would care less about their own posterity and more about running the city.
He shrugged. That doesnt mean they were good to the people here.
Indeed. We are looking at a time of rather rudimentary rights and very little in the way of acknowledgment of personal liberty, I replied as I peeked out from the alley we had been hiding in. The Fifth Columnists had thankfully moved on, leaving us alone with the hustle and bustle of Akkadians going about their business. Mister Ward had his hand on the back of my arm and I used my cane to steady myself, making it appear to the populace that he was helping an old man navigate instead of the opposite.
They dont seem unhappy, though, he noted, as we meandered our way through the crowd. This street was one of many that made up part of the central market of Shubat Anshar, lined on all sides with stalls and stands for the people hawking their wares. They arent exactly shrieking in terror
In fact, we havent heard any sign of fear since Ros killed those guards.
Well, of course. I had to resist laughing, but Im sure Mister Ward was able to read the mirth in my mind. We were getting strange looks due to speaking in English, anyway, and it would be woeful to compound this with brazen laughter. Humans have an amazing capacity for being content with what they are presented with. For the Akkadians, this is their life and they do not imagine anything different. If you described our world, the majority of these people would look at you in astonishment and wonder how it could work at all. I mean, the people ruling themselves? This is madness.
Madness? He stared at me for a moment, expectantly, and then shook his head.
What? I asked.
I just
He smiled. Its a film reference. Its kind of a popular joke now.
Ah. Ive heard of it. I directed us between two stalls and into a side-street beyond. I havent seen it.
It doesnt really seem like your kind of film, he admitted. I nodded in agreement.
I brought us to a halt and then retreat into a doorway just as a pair of Fifth Columnists poked their head into the side-street from the intersection ahead. Shortly afterwards, they moved on and we resumed our steady march forward. Alas, they were the advance guard of a larger group of soldiers, and the beginning of what would soon prove to be a true sweep-and-search. We were disconcerted by this turn of affairs, as it belied a response time much quicker than I had expected from the Fifth Column. Even if they had stumbled upon the dead guards shortly after we left, I wouldve expected some amount of organization required before they could begin sweeping the city, and even then, Shubat Anshar was a decent sized city (for its time) and I cant imagine the Fifth Column being numerous enough to sweep the entire city at once.
The Fifth have been defying expectations so far, Mister Ward pointed out. Theyre much better organized than normal.
I agreed, and put the blame upon Herr Auer. He was an intelligent man with good education, and had spent his life managing businesses and vast sums of personnel and money. Furthermore, the individual soldiers themselves seemed none-too-bright (as evidenced by our successful ambushes), and only performed well on the large scale. He was competent in directing them.
Nearly a dozen soldiers had congregated at a major intersection and were busy inspecting every person who passed. The idea of a pat-down search was old as time recorded in the Bible, even so the people were familiar with it. They did not show the rage and indignation that a modern man might have at such treatment, only fear and
boredom? I wonder how many times Auer thought we had snuck into the city and had gone about this business.
Mister Ward went on: We dont know how many soldiers got sucked back in the temporal vortex, but if people are arriving later for being further from the Key when it was activated, then people outside of that room wouldnt even be appearing yet. There were only a few dozen there, and weve killed what? eight so far? Nine? Hes got to be running out of men.
Not just, I corrected. I dont recall seeing the Warwolf in the altar room, so it is possible that the vortex was spherical and thus grabbing people in rooms or passages above or below the altar as well. Theyd be closer to it than us.
He shook his head. Even still, that wouldnt be enough to have multiple groups of ten soldiers throughout the city and do a good search. Auer is probably just focusing in this area, since heres where we came in.
The logic was sound, but unpleasant. Auer would naturally assume wed come to rescue young Victor, who we believed was being kept in the Temple proper. That would mean that the soldiers were being concentrated around it. I frowned. And here is where were going, too.
Yeah. He swallowed. You think Sofia made it through?
Dont worry, shell have the door open in time, I replied, or this will be the shortest-
Dont say it! He interrupted, pointing a finger vaguely in my direction.
I raised an eyebrow at him. I beg your pardon?
Hearing movie references from you is just
disturbing. He grumbled. Next thing I know youll be quoting the Matrix.
I considered this for a moment. I do not know what youre talking about.
The Matrix? Its this film about-
I meant the movie reference, Mister Ward. It was entirely unintentional, I assure you.
Oh. He scratched his head. Never met anybody who wanted seen that before. Its kind of a standard part of our culture, really. You should see it when you get back.
I shrugged and added it to my mental list. People seemed to forget that I was witness to the development of film as a public, mainstream media, and I did indeed see several of them before my imprisonment. Milestones All Quiet on the Western Front was, in my opinion, an excellent adaptation of Remarques novel, and a good account of what the Great War was like.
Or so I heard. It was worse in Italy and the Alps.
Sofia said you fought in World War One, he said, picking up my thoughts, but Ive never heard you mention it. I think thats weird. He added, in response to my feelings of surprise and a raised eyebrow, I mean, people like to talk about important things in their lives, and you act like you werent even there.
Well, it is important
And thats why I do not like to speak about it. I realized the absurdity of the statement and uncharacteristically went on, not wanting to sound like I disliked discussions about matters of gravity. I do not feel I can ever do it justice, ever give it the time and eloquence it needs. When people hear I was in the War, they pepper me with questions about what it was like and how I felt, and I have nothing to say to them. It was like facing the worst day of my life, every day, for years on end, and when people seem so eager to hear about it, it disturbs me.
Oh.
Truly, Mister Ward, there is no need to be ashamed of your curiosity. I patted him on the shoulder. I think I know you well enough to speak about those experiences without provisions or feelings of uneasiness.
He gave me an impish smile. But not well enough to use my first name? You use Ros and Vics names sometimes
Only because there is need to differentiate between the two Kushan brothers. I gave him a level gaze, and noticed that the group of Fifth had moved on down the road away from us.
I use this cane because of the war, I explained. A landmine. It killed the man who didnt see it, and he was just a short bit ahead of me, so I got shrapnel embedded in my knee. It never healed properly.
Really? He subconsciously looked down at my knee, even though he couldnt see it. Cant you heal it?
Of course, I replied, but I do not want to. It is something of a trophy a constant reminder of what happened. Besides, Ive always used my magic to suppress the pain. A couldnt help but smile as a thought came unbidden.
It was only a flesh wound.
He groaned.
Global @Diellan - 5M2M
Mids' Hero/Villain Designer Lead
Virtue Server
Redside: Lorenzo Mondavi
Blueside: Alex Rabinovich
Got a Mids suggestion? Want to report a Mids bug?
Chapter LXVIII
In Which the Merits of Romanticism are Debated
Madam Rabinovich was late.
Can you see where the hidden passage should be? Mister Ward swung his head back and forth in vain. Maybe were just not at the right spot.
This should be the place, I replied. It matches her description. But I can not tell without getting close enough to examine the rocks.
The rough and uneven, unhewn stone of the base of the temple made it difficult to find the seams of a secret passageway. This was exacerbated by our inability to examine closely; the area around the temple had been cleared of all civilians and there were sentries making regular circles. We were hidden behind a small open market, where a man sold recently fried meat-and-vegetable matter a kebab of some kind, I supposed and two individuals were seated at a table and were playing some kind of board game with stones (upon closer inspection, it appeared to be some old form of backgammon).
Cant you see any signs? he asked. Scratch marks in the dirt; footsteps going nowhere; sand settled wrong that kind of stuff?
I shook my head. The mechanism must open inward
And there are too many tracks for me to tell from here.
He sighed and leaned back against the wall, completely hidden from the people on the street. Then shes late. How long has it been?
Too long. I didnt bother checking my watch. Either she has gotten lost inside, or caught. If she does not appear soon, we may have to go in ourselves and attempt a rescue.
She wont like that.
I turned and gave him a look of surprise. Oh?
His eyes darted furtively, as if he was about to tell a secret of great importance. Sofia
She really doesnt like people thinking that she cant do something, or thinking they need to rush and save her. Really doesnt like it. Really. If we ran in, itd mean we didnt think she was capable of handling this on her own.
And if she isnt? I frowned. Perhaps she fell into a trap? Perhaps the warwolf caught her?
Shed find a way to escape? he supplied, somewhat convincingly. She and Alex are always going on about how useless superpowers are anyways, and how theyre able to get through these kinds of things without relying on them. Theyre a crutch. He fixed his gaze on me. You agreed!
I did indeed, I admitted. But while I consider her to be a capable woman, I do not expect her to be able to bypass each and every possible threat. That is an impossible feat.
Yeah, but
He crossed his arms. But youll have to go in without me. If we run in and shes handling things just fine, you can be the one that she harangues. Not me.
I raised an eyebrow and scoffed. Some things are too dangerous for such silly notions, Mister Ward. She can swallow her pride and accept the safer alternative.
He barked a short laugh. Oh? This coming from the guy whos running around crippled by of romanticism?
What? I gave him a long look. While I do enjoy Chopin, I do not understand how that is a character flaw.
He groaned. I mean your leg. He pointed down at my bad knee. You couldve healed it a million times already, and you didnt, and youve got to admit that this all wouldve been a whole lot easier if you had.
I frowned. Weve been over this-
And thats what Im talking about: you didnt heal it because of some romantic notions you have about scars and dead people. Frustration tinted his voice. Why didnt you just heal it but leave a scar, anyways? Like normal people?
I
I stopped. I didnt really have an answer to that question; I could honestly say the possibility had never passed through my mind before. Its a strange bit of human cognition that once a course of action has been chosen, alternatives become not only unfavorable, but hard to even imagine. Choosing to keep the wound had seemed like such a fitting memorial that I did not even consider a halfway step.
But now that I did
I shook my head. That feels too much like cheating - like I am only paying them lip service without any real commitment.
Isnt what you do just as bad? You magic away the pain and the difficulties, just on a-
A daily basis, Mister Ward, I finished with him in order to emphasize the importance of that part. Every morning I examine the enchantments on my knee and in doing so, I remind myself of what it all stands for for whom it all stands for. It is a minor daily sacrifice on the altar of the past.
He rolled his eyes. Romanticism. And your sacrifice is adding a lot of troubles here. If we ever get caught, you wont be able to run.
Then, perhaps, it would be best were we not caught.
And hows that going to happen with these soldiers around? He thumbed in the direction of the sentries guarding the temple. We arent going to sneak past them, and theyre going to notice Sofia opening that door.
I agreed and peeked out around the stall once more. Two of the soldiers had joined up and appeared to be talking to one another. I saw something pass between their hands, and then a flare of light as one of them lit a cigarette.
They arent the most observant of soldiers, but maybe
I sat back down as my mind ran across the alternatives. The two of us carried a small supply of grenades and ammo, as well as a dismantled rifle hidden in Sofias medic bag which was now hanging off of my companions shoulders, and we could probably utilize the combination to draw attention elsewhere and pick off the few left behind.
And then have every mook in this temple running out to meet us? He groaned. Thats just as bad.
But what else? I asked silently, unconsciously staring up at the heavens. We needed a distraction.
A peal of thunder answered my quiet prayer to the cloudless sky, followed by the crack of gunfire. The soldiers froze in the tracks, nervously twitching their trigger fingers, and turned in the direction of the staccato shots.
Mister Ward started to step towards the sound, but I pulled him back to our hiding place. Thats Ros, isnt it?
Likely, yes. From what Madam Rabinovich told us, Auer liked fanfare and quick executions, and didnt like to waste ammo or explosives, so it wasnt likely to be some kind of demonstration on the populace. It appears that he did not succeed in avoiding capture.
Oh, hes avoiding it, alright. He smirked. Its a very Kushan way of avoiding it, but it still counts.
The periodic rifle bursts had grown into elaborate exchanges between Rostov Kushan and whatever group of Fifth Columnists had stumbled upon him. It wasnt too far away, but with the sounds echoing off the walls and alleys of the city, it was impossible to judge precisely.
Is it working as a distraction?
I watched the soldiers start to run down the street, rifles raised almost to shoulder level. To my surprise and joy, they left only one of their members behind to patrol the area - not nearly enough to keep guard over the entire stretch, and easily dispatched if necessary.
Yes, yes it is. I once more held out my elbow for him to grab, and edged forward. Come along, Garent, were going to make a dash for the temple base as soon as he goes around that ramp down there. Once we find the seam, we can return.
He nodded and took my arm. Moments later, we began hobbling across the lightly populated square, trying our best to ignore the periodic sounds of gunfire and explosives that filled the air.
Global @Diellan - 5M2M
Mids' Hero/Villain Designer Lead
Virtue Server
Redside: Lorenzo Mondavi
Blueside: Alex Rabinovich
Got a Mids suggestion? Want to report a Mids bug?
Chapter LXIX
In Which Fortune Fails
Did you
He scratched his head. I could be hallucinating, but did you just use my first name?
I smiled in my amusement and decided to put him on for a short tease. It must have been a hallucination, Im afraid. With any luck, we will restore your hearing shortly and you will no longer have to worry about such phantom pangs.
I couldve swo-
Later, Mister Ward, I cut him off, we must find the passageway first.
The seam in the wall was relatively easy to find, as this was no modern construction with precise measurements and smooth surfaces. Since the stones of the temple were large things dragged from a quarry, there were not many crevasses and junctions to obscure the line surrounding the secret entrance. I found myself impressed by the size wide enough to allow several men to walk abreast and I could but only assume that it was an addition added by the Fifth Columnists, and not some marvel of ancient engineering.
Found it, I announced and turned to my companion. After a moment of consternation regarding propriety, I took his hand in mine and guided his fingers to the spot on the wall.
He found the line and started tracing it up and down with his fingers (down more than up, as it stretched above both our reaches). So do we wait here for Sofia or go back across the street?
A difficult question, I replied, turning around to look down the streets. If the guards arrive before she
does
Whats wrong?
A group of half a dozen Akkadians was marching towards us, armed with various forms of primitive weaponry spears, curved daggers, axes. One of them shouted something at us, but it was very slurred and I had difficulty making out any of the words except for one: forbidden.
Again? Mister Ward groaned.
I gave him a look of annoyance and briefly considered my options. The sword would be dangerous against actual soldiers, especially given the spears, but the rifle would give us away, something I was loathe to do since Rostov Kushan had already been intercepted and we were so close. Gun? Or stealth? I asked.
Whatre you asking me- He paused, blinked, then said, Wait. Pull out the rifle. They should recognize it and run away or cower or something.
Excellent idea! I agreed, throwing off my robe and raising my rifle. The men, who were a mere few meters away, froze. Go away! I shouted in a poor attempt at Akkadian, and then flipped the safety catch to automatic fire.
I heard a pair of similar clicks to my left and I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach. Sure enough, a glance to my side revealed a pair of Fifth Columnist soldiers, rifles aimed at my companion and me.
Ha! The click always gets their attention, one of them said out of the side of his mouth, though it aint nearly as good as cocking a pistol.
Mister Ward groaned.
Drop the rifle and put your hands in the air! the other one shouted in our direction. The boss wants you both alive, but he isnt here and my friend has a real itchy trigger finger.
Ha! The first one laughed. We brought the girl in alive, put the boss in a good mood, so maybe hed overlook a few corpses.
Sofia? Mister Ward asked, turning his vacant stare in the soldiers direction. Shes okay?
Just do what youre told, and maybe youll find out.
Please dont, so I can shoot you.
I sighed and unslung the rifle, letting it drop to the ground. The swordcane was in Mister Wards hand, and I still had the pistol hidden under my jacket, along with a few other items that the elder Kushan had provided me. I most certainly was not fast enough to pull them out without being shot, and even if I could, a grenade at this range would be just as fatal to me.
As I raised my hands in the air, I could not help wondering if my dream had been more than just a memory twisted, but something of prophecy.
You like that? A local militia
The soldier spoke as he and his more bloodthirsty companion approached us, rope in hand. Another one of the bosss ideas. It was tough at first, with the language barrier and all, but they got the picture.
The other one snickered. Yeah, and these ones were all too eager after some farmer friends of theirs got killed yesterday.
I told you
I felt the intense glare of my companions gaze on my back, but did not turn to face him. I imagined that I would be hearing about this for quite some time afterwards. You better believe it
Losin friends makes folk downright murdrous, the man continued as he stopped right behind me. All us Fifth are friends brothers een and it wasnt jus farmers that you killed.
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, an observation instantly drowned out by the blinding pain in my right knee. I folded, my legs giving out, and sprawled on the ground. A second and third kick followed, these in my side.
The grenade idea looked better by the moment, but I reminded myself that they were going to bring me in alive and that pain was always temporary. I took a deep breath and tried very hard to believe it.
That felt painful
Mister Ward whispered, still keyed into my thoughts. I turned my head and looked up at him, cane in one hand, and the other reaching into his robe while the soldiers were distracted with me. Strange, since he had no guns, only the flashbang grenades that Rostov Kushan had given to him for emer
gen
cies
I put my face into the dirt and clapped my hands on my ears.
The sound was not so much loud as concussive it drowned out everything and made my head swim, even with my ears covered. I pushed myself up from the ground, and saw the nearest Fifth Columnist on the ground, clutching his head, and the other one stumbling, firing wildly into the air. I could not hear his shots and realized I had been temporarily deafened by the grenade; luckily, I was the only person left with good vision.
I sprang into action though I admit that to be a poor choice of words given my barely functioning right knee snatched my rifle from the ground, and rose to a kneeling position. An arc of automatic fire swept around me, bringing down the wayward soldier and the Akkadian horde. The other soldier, which had been below my arc, still writhed in pain. I lowered the gun to his head, and squeezed the trigger.
Convinced by the lack of movement that the immediate threat had ceased, I tried to stand up, failing almost immediately.
Another excellent idea, Mister Ward, I said, though I could not hear myself. Alas, now I truly need your assistance moving around. Could you help me up?
My ears were now ringing, a sign of a near recovery, which lightened my heart. I remained balanced on my left knee, though, alone.
Mister Ward?
I turned around. My companion was on the ground, his hands clutching his stomach. Hands that were covered in his own blood.
Global @Diellan - 5M2M
Mids' Hero/Villain Designer Lead
Virtue Server
Redside: Lorenzo Mondavi
Blueside: Alex Rabinovich
Got a Mids suggestion? Want to report a Mids bug?
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH !
*gasp!*
Fantastic stuff, as always, but-
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH !
My Stories
Look at that. A full-grown woman pulling off pigtails. Her crazy is off the charts.
Wow, people are still reading...
...
What, did you think things were about to get simpler?
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Of course not! Why should things get simple just as they're getting interesting?
--Note: I'm not implying things haven't been interesting thus far, but the momentum certainly doesn't seem to be slowing down.
And of course we're still reading! This is good stuff!
My Stories
Look at that. A full-grown woman pulling off pigtails. Her crazy is off the charts.
Chapter LXX
In Which We Backtrack A Little, and Take a Stroll
Head up, back straight, I thought, trying to uncurl myself from the ball into which I rolled on the floor. Right. A brilliant strategy in theory, which the human body is simply not programmed to withstand, even when the spirit is willing. My spirit, I assure you, was only too willing, but the flesh, alas, was weak. I did manage a movement of the arm to wipe the blood pouring freely from my nose.
But let us backtrack a little.
For a while, after I left Rostov standing by the side of the road, things were quite easy. The road was narrow, dusty, and ordinary. And very empty. I walked along it, head bowed slightly to keep out the worst of the sun, carrying my large, mostly empty basket, sandals scuffing the dirt. I looked nondescript and insignificant again, the genuine fear once more lending credibility to my disguise.
I made my way through the slums clinging to the city of Shubat Anshar from outside the wall with the cursory habit of one who had been there before – as I had, merely a day prior – without sparing more than a fleeting glance to the hordes of naked, dirty, doomed children and their emaciated, equally dirty mothers. The city wall came up in front of me like a clay forcefield, large and impenetrable, and I slouched even further, trying to conceal my face in the shadow of my scarf.
The soldiers at the gate – a different pair this time from the two on post yesterday – a grizzled older man somewhere close to my age, and a kid no older than Garent, looked as uncomfortable and belligerent as any conquering army amidst too many incomprehensible, mysterious natives. Still, they looked somewhat more wary and alert than they had before.
I stood by the side of the road, frowning thoughtfully
I had no real notion how good a description Auer had provided his soldiers with. Surely, it could not be as good as all that. Out encounter, such as it was, had been brief and superficial; his notice of me more subconscious than aware. For all I knew, he had a mere vague impression of me; a sort of pale, blond whiff of an idea. Perhaps he hadn't even noticed the blond.
The two guards chose exactly that moment to pick on a man entering the city, towing a sort of wheelbarrow. They blocked his road with their guns – the man stared at the weapons with blank fear, notably familiar with them only by a sort of mythical hearsay – and were posing questions to him in what even I could tell was horribly mangled Akkadian. The man was shaking his head more than giving any coherent responses, and these responses he did give were bewildered and, as time passed, annoyed.
The guards' attention wandered. It did a more or less elliptical survey of the area, and fluttered to stare at a girl with promising features carrying a baby. Then a woman approached the gate from the other side.
The soldiers leapt.
The maneouvre was executed in a fashion that, to me, was almost comic as they abandoned the man they’d been perfunctorily harassing and went for the woman trying to leave.
She looked nothing like me; she was small and swarthy and – even accounting for the trials and lifespans of the past – probably a few years my senior. An elderly woman who, by her dress and attitude, was a denizen of the slums that I’d been now departing. She had gone to do business in the city, and was now confronted by these suspicious, angry foreigners when she merely wished to go home.
They thought I was inside. As we suspected, as we hoped, Auer thought I was inside.
I started laughing silently, clutching my hand to my mouth, shuddering helplessly in a surge of almost vicious hysteria, fighting at the same time to both regain control, and relinquish it entirely. Once I traverse this little obstacle, and find myself inside the walls, all moments for emotional unburdening would be very much over.
I quenched the laughter, affixing on my face an expression of blank foolishness. Eyes wandering about, face locked in an expression of permanent bewilderment, as though I could not, quite, grasp the visual input about me. In a last burst of caution, I rubbed a hand across my face; the hand had been grimy, and left streaks of gray dust along my cheeks and eyelids. I was a sight, and no man in his right mind would possibly look at me. They might look at the dirt on my face, I conceded somewhat wryly, but definitely not at me.
I took a step out of the shadows and onto the road, holding on to my blank expression like a shield. Walking at the steady, measured pace of a woman who had nowhere to run to, but would not tarry, I walked up to the guards at the gate. They moved to block my way, and I stopped.
“What d’you think of this one?” the younger soldier examined me under hooded eyelids, and I felt an unprofessional sort of disgust run down my spine. I didn’t like his look, and I didn’t like the look of him.
“Can’t be our woman. Auer told us to be careful because she’s clever. Look at this cow, does she look clever to you?” I smiled at him without exposing my too-good teeth, and held out the token necklace for his inspection. He grunted. ”****, Brown, let her pass. Our woman’s inside, anyway.”
The younger man nodded, smirking at me unpleasantly. Then he moved aside, and waved me in. I ducked my head, to prevent him from examining me further, and scurried. I moved only just fast enough to avoid the well-aimed kick the young man directed at my back. I cowered theatrically, hiding my anger and disgust in the imitation of fear, and ran off, followed by the sound of the older man’s berating. From the little I managed to catch of his scolding, his young partner was downright impervious to chastisement.
I was in.
This time around, I didn’t look for the market, nor did I look about, trying to examine the city. I dodged straight into an alley, a small, shadowed, smelly walkway that cut from the main road in front of the gate towards some buildings I could not really identify, and thought.
First, to make my way further into the city. If I could get caught on the other side of the city, that would be ideal. Though it might seem, to someone with Auer’s devious mind, like overreaching. But I should not be right here, by the gates, nor should I be anywhere near the market where I had been seen yesterday. My capture should look like an accident; a stroke of bad luck, not a setup.
I headed towards the unidentified buildings.
The part of Anshar, which I neglected yesterday, heading straight for the temple, was mostly remarkably colourless and square. Made largely of clay, with a sprinkling of stone, the streets beaten down dust and brown mud where households spilled their excess liquids – I avoided those carefully. Grass straggled through every crack and crevice in the brown dirt, buoyant and wild in the spring. In summer, it would become yellow, dry, and thorny, and would be a hazard for little children. Families lived here, women did laundry on their doorsteps, swept dirt and vermin out into the streets.
I took two or three more turns, crossing a small square with a covered, sloshing well, and a small bridge of logs over a river of unidentified substance, and stopped between two low-slng fences. It was time to make my move.
I wanted to appear obvious, but not too obvious. Firstly, I unwound the skirt I used instead of a kerchief, and wore it under my Akkadian wrap. My hair, loose now from its restraints, hung limp until I gathered it under a woefully insufficient scarf. Finally, out of the basket on my back, I pulled out – hoping that it was not too blatant strategy – my umbrella. If anything, it would not be to theatric for the soldiers. As for Auer, surely he would not be chasing me in the streets in his own wheezy person.
I stepped out of the alley, leaning on my umbrella, feeling, oddly enough, a sensation of almost palpable relief. It was irrational, but I was quite done feeling unsteady and teetering, physically and psychologically.
Thus equipped, I paced slowly along the street. The denizens of Anshar, apparently used to the new profound weirdness of the invaders which burst into their lives, cast me occasional curious glances, more related, I felt, to the fact that I was merely strolling quietly along like normal people than to the odd object in my hand. I looked harmless enough, I supposed, to befuddle them.
For a few minutes, nothing happened. Auer must have had a limit on the amount of soldiers he could place about the city, and he has not considered the living quarters of merchants and small business owners (I am applying, of course, modern terminology to different occupations) to be worthy of inspections. His first mistake, I realized with amusement; like many collectors and connoisseurs of the antique, he had a slight tendency for the grandiose and a disregard of the mundane. It came through in his showman’s technique; he would never find himself in a place like this, with no historical significance or value, with no points of interest, among little, everyday people pruning their vines for spring. Exactly the sort of place I liked and felt safe in.
Only after about twenty minutes, I swerved out of a small street into a larger alleyway, with - I grinned to myself helplessly – obvious urban development in the shape of palms lining the middle. The dirt here was even more closely packed, and little piles indicated a large amount of thoroughfare traffic of the old style.
The alleyway seemed like a good choice. Even if Auer would not patrol the residential neighbourhoods, he would surely not fail to put a few me around the central streets. I nodded to myself, gripped my umbrella firmly, and started walking along the side of the road, face away from the nooning sun.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter LXXI
In Which the Brute Squad Is Sighted, and Someone Cries Wolf
I spotted the first patrol a few minutes later, turning out of a stone-paved square into the street perhaps fifty meters behind me. They were sufficiently easy to locate; the clang of their heavy boot and metallic weapons and belt buckles was a complete contrast to the relative soft-footedness of sandals that were mostly leather and a thin piece of finely cut wood – essentially cardboard.
I was lucky that way. There my luck abruptly came to a halt.
There was a pair of soldiers, rifles slung casually on their backs. A little too casually, I decided as I dodged behind a tree. They were relaxed and confident, walking across the street at a comfortable pace, occasionally menacing passers-by with a look.
The third to round the corner was my old acquaintance from afar, the Warwolf.
It was no wonder the patrol was relaxed and confident. The Warwolf was the Brute Squad. And he had my scent, or at least a semblance thereof, to boot. Now I could not hope to hide, even if I was inclined to. Partially, of course, I was; I could not simply walk up to them with my hands in the air. If only for my own perverse enjoyment, I was about to lead the soldiers and their puppy on a merry chase. I waited to make sure, while the patrol advanced down the street, and the Warwolf’s glazed eyes slowly focused as he scented his prey. Namely; me.
I saw the change emerge in his behaviour. As slowly his attention was caught, the doleful, almost sad lurching step was transformed, and the hunter’s instinct emerged. The wolf dropped down to the ground in the mouth of the small alley from which I emerged, and circled the spot several times, growling loudly.
I believe I already mentioned there was something distinctly canine about him.
It was just about time to abscond. I checked the strap of my basket, and loosened it a little bit, to be on the sure side. Then I picked my umbrella up and silently trotted off. Say what you will about my sportsmanship and physical capability – and most of what you are likely to say would use words like ‘nonexistent – I can actually sneak pretty well. I turned the corner of the alley with none the wiser, and was making off between some fences by the time I heard the heavy, running tread of armed goons behind my back.
I dodged them by climbing the nearest fence. I did so rather awkwardly, and wasted several minutes carefully mounting the two-meter or so structure, and eyeballing the ground below for a jump. I landed in a patch of vegetables, and scrambled up, tearing the stalks of bean sprouts, struggling through a growth of young and tender green onions, and fled, pursued now not only by the Fifth Columnists, but by the outraged cries of the housewife whose planting I destroyed.
My basket remained hanging by a loose clump of hemp off the low stone wall.
The commotion behind my back increased exponentially as three more persons dove – much more rapidly – over the wall I had just traversed. The housewife’s shrieks rose to an outraged crescendo of indignation before cutting off abruptly and being replaced with a throaty growl and the painful crack of a rifle-butt thwack. Then there was momentary lull, as the men trampled confusedly among the same beans and onions, and then I heard their voices ring out.
“Split up, she’s gotta be in here somewhere!”
“Yessir!” And the rapid thunk-thunk-thunk of heavy footsteps. The Warwolf growled again, and started after the confused trail of my scent, mixed now with the thick verdant vegetables of the garden, and a little bit of mud and stale water. I had no interest of being caught quite yet, so I splashed, wrinkling my mouth with distaste, through one of the low-dug canals that served the population of Shubat-Anshar as sewage and waste disposal. Then I climbed the stairs of a relatively silent building up onto the roof.
Below me, the beast twirled in confusion over the odorous slush. I crouched behind a parapet with linen sheets stretched to dry flapping on it conveniently, and frowned, trying to formulate a vague observation which kept getting lost repeatedly in simple calculations of speed, distance and maze-solving. I felt like a lab rat with a vast incentive – starvation, perhaps – to find the cheese, whose attention could not possibly be spared for the little flashing lights. Yet the flashing lights were important and generally indicative of people in labcoats who, if luck permitted, could be coaxed to divulge parts of a sandwich.
The Warwolf finally decided to look up. The flashing lights went away, and my attention focused wholly on the large, clawed paws and substantial teeth. He could clearly the better eat me. He stared up, and finally caught sight of me, or perhaps of the place where I’ve been. Overall, the notion of being caught by the wolf left me, to put it mildly, quite indifferent. I hiked up my skirt to prevent undue collapses, and whirled on a heel to pivot away from the pursuer, and dive over to the next little street. The Warwolf, eyes following my motions, growled in a fashion that was distinctly more menacing than before, and somehow more focused.
I ran.
Down the flight of stairs, out into the back yard, through the opening into the neighbours’ patch of legumes, through the nearest alley – no longer paying attention where I stepped – and finally breathlessly emerging out into a second, larger street, where the other two soldiers should have been.
The two of them had cornered the traffic in the street, and were closing on me in a pincer motion. I looked about with a panic that was no longer feigned, and braced against a house, gulping for air. I’ve never been a good runner.
The two soldiers advanced, drawing their rifles. That was decidedly not in the plan. I was fairly certain that the Fifth – and especially Auer – would want me alive, for all sorts of reasons, but I was not a hundred percent confident. In war, we all base our strategy on a gamble, and then aim not to be killed. I threw up my hands in a gesture of highly ambiguous surrender, waiting for them to hesitate. One of the soldiers’ rifle muzzles slid fractionally downward, and I relaxed a little.
The other rifle went BOOM.
That was distinctly not in the plan. I dropped to my knees behind a short flight of outside stairs made mostly of close-packed mud. It was time for some quick thinking; I needed to get caught, not shot. I’d be no use to anyone if I died now.
I scooted back carefully, and tiptoed off to the wall, which separated this stretch of garden from the street I’d previously ran down. I was almost by the wall and ready to climb it, umbrella clutched under an arm and foot poised, when a growl rattled the ground, vibrating up into my fingers, making my noise-sensitive ears want to curl inward.
Some deep primal survival instinct made me let go of the wall, suddenly and without balancing. It drove me back and dropped me to the ground with an impact that threatened to wrench loose a vertebra or two, and rattled my teeth. My eyes registered a blue patch of sky, then a vast, lupine body arced over the wall, which I just vacated, and its dark bulk descended towards my face. I flinched, covering my eyes reflexively.
A large, clawed hand swept along my arm, and I felt the pain of deep scratched, felt blood gush out and slide along my arm, smelled the saltiness, heard my shirt sleeve and the woolen poncho which I wore over it rip with a sound of tortured fabric. My fingers went numb and I let out an involuntary yowl. Then a paw was harrowing me, trying to flip me onto my chest while several more rifle shots emanated from behind, growing a little too close for my taste. I bit down on another whimper of protest, and went limp.
The Warwolf picked me up bodily – not that I was surprised; a Warwolf could handle grown men, and I was substantially smaller than that – and threw me forward, face out. I decided to withhold vociferous objections for the time I actually had sufficient oxygen, and curled in a ball, absorbing he second impact as best I could.
There was another claw. I resigned myself to blacking out.
“Whoa! Stop that!” the soldier who had lowered the rifle – or so I deduced due to the sensible sentiment expressed – was sanding over me, kicking me with a casual lack of malice in the ribs. “The boss wanted any of them alive and intact.”
I examined the cuts on my arm from the corner of my eye, and cautiously reached out to touch my lacerated scalp. Another thin trickle of blood was sliding into my eye from somewhere. “Oops?”
“Shut up!” That, clearly, was the shooting hothead, distinguishable by the tone of his voice from his more relaxed fellow (him could actually talking immediately ruled out the rather equally hotheaded Warwolf). A rifle butt was thrust into my field of vision, driving at my head.
“Hey!” I protested in a voice which came out rather more of a croak than I liked, “brain damaged prisoners tell no tales.”
“And do prisoners with no brain damage tell tales?” the voice sounded skeptical enough, but a foot went in to intercept the rifle butt. I could smell the leather, steel and unwashed sock as they hovered in front of my nose.
“That depends. Is your perk programme any good?”
“Not much of a dental,” the senior man (I assumed) displayed an uncharacteristic amount of humour, “but we get great life insurance.”
I examined the rifle and the foot attentively. “Can’t very well argue with that.”
The foot withdrew. After a second, the rifle disappeared as well. A hand – human, this time, not clawed, but still immensely strong – grasped the scruff of my neck and hauled. I could either hang by my own shirt collar, or follow. Prudently, I decided to follow.
On my feet again, I inspected the three faces in front of me; one amused but locked under tight control, one canine and expressionless and one bitterly furious.
I was very much caught.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter LXXII
In Which The Way Into The Darkness Is Paved With Good Intentions
At first, while the soldiers and the Warwolf dragged me through the streets, things did not seem half-bad. I was hanging by the scruff of my torn shirt with my feet occasionally scraping the ground, and occasionally dangling several centimeters above it, in the grip of the large, clawed paw. If not for the choking and chafing of my collar, I would have found this method of transportation almost comfortable, as my feet by that point were so sore and bloated as to make walking at the rapid tempo the soldiers set almost completely impossible.
Of course, in actuality, the chafing and choking didn’t help. Nor did the soldiers’ occasional laughter. I loathe being laughed at.
Fifteen minutes later – indicative of the city’s surprisingly small size, given its bustling nature – we were traversing the square in front of the temple doors. The Warwolf dropped me, and I stood shakily, trembling and trying not to fall, the blood dripping from my arm onto the dirt. I glanced down my nose at my arm, mildly concerned. The bleeding was slowing down some, to a slow seepage, but I had better put pressure on these cuts, or at least find some cold water to constrict the blood vessels.
Thus deposited, I stood in front of the vast doors, staring blindly into the dim interior within. There were shapes moving inside, which I could not quite make out, and rustling noises of boots on stone.
“I’m gonna report.” The senior, sensible soldier divested himself of his rifle in front of the tall, swinging doors, and extracted the magazine, rapidly checking the rifle for safety before leaning it on the wall. Evidently, strolling inside with rifles, at last unannounced was not encouraged. “Wait here.”
He strode off into the darkness of the temple rapidly, leaving me with his younger comrade and the Warwolf. The latter crouched on his haunches, claws hanging limply between his knees, staring off into the distance, occasionally twitching an ear in my direction. He looked almost forlorn, and very much preoccupied, but I had no illusions that if I were to move from my place or attempt to run – a feat I couldn’t have achieved even if I were inclined – he would pursue, and subdue me in an instant.
The other soldier, casting a slightly uneasy (or so I liked to imagine) glance at the Warwolf, unslung his own rifle, and advanced into the temple, baring his teeth at me in a snarl. “Just try to run. I’ll die to see it… And so will you.”
I merely shrugged in return, tilting my head in slight acknowledgment. Bravado and mouthing off, I had long since decided, were for people who felt out of their depth. Defiant speeches were for those who were on the brink of losing. I made it a point to stand straight, and look the soldier in the face, instead, with the slight smile of an accommodating, slightly irritated guest. I made it a point, also, not to touch my wounded, throbbing arm. The soldier growled at me again through pursed lips and departed.
I remained, bracing myself for a prolonged wait on my unsteady feet.
I didn’t have long to wait until my escort showed up in the doorway. It was not the older soldier who’d taken me here, nor was it his young partner. This one had a shack of excruciatingly blond hair, and looked sunburnt like a lobster. He grabbed me by the arm – my right, not my bleeding left – and dragged me along. I followed, my heels leaving an artistic burrow in the dust, till I was inside the cool shade of the stone passages of the ziggurat.
Then I saw the others. A wide semicircle of eyes, looking at me from the shadows, the black uniforms only distinguishable by the sleekness and gloss, standing out against the matte walls. I did not, quite, manage to stop myself from heaving a heavy sigh at the obvious, oncoming episode.
Teeth gleaned maliciously in the darkness, and the room exploded.
Beatings are amazingly boring, to tell you the truth. The perpetrators and the victims alike quite lack originality, and seem to repeat the same actions over and over again. Boots are popular, as are blows to the face and head. Kidneys enjoy a sort of prestige and, in the case of both genders, clichés aside, kicks aimed somewhat below the kidneys prove satisfactory as well.
On the side of the victim, there is much cowering, burrowing in one’s hands, and cringing. Sometimes the more creative institute attempts to dodge or return the favour as best they can. Nails seem to be a favoured weapon, as well as fists – resulting in bloody knuckles and nothing more – and sometimes items in one’s hands. I was much too slow and clumsy to use my umbrella, though the steel frame served occasionally as a convenient blocking mechanism. I had to remind myself, firmly and unequivocally, not to attempt to tear out the soldiers’ eyeballs, or present them with a gender-specific experience they would not forget.
More than anything, I reminded myself as I assumed the standard position of sprawling face-first onto the stone and covering my head with my hands, I had to make them undervalue me. My plan, so far, was working perfectly; the soldiers did not even bother to tie my hands. This act of the play, intended as much to find the reserves, hidden and not, of the prisoner as to grant satisfaction and revenge, had to prove that my reserves were depleted after the first kick. I found pretending defeat to be amazingly easy. It was, in fact, no work at all.
I did refuse to give them the satisfaction of my screams.
It lasted for quite some time – at the least, it felt to me as though it had – though I could never say how long. Towards the end, I was simply lying limply on the floor, fading in and out of consciousness, and waiting for Auer to make his dramatic entrance.
“That would be quite enough of that.”
The kicking continued by inertia for a few more seconds, and some hapless hand delivered the last punch. There was a sharp, loud cough, and silence reigned. Auer did not fail me. I was momentarily considerably more frightened by the sheer gratitude I felt than I had been up until now at the brutality and pain. I sighed, reminding myself in a rather Shakespearian moment to hold on more firmly to my own philosophies, and reached out a hand (my right, not my left) to find my umbrella rolling in the dust by my head.
I used it to slowly lever myself up to my feet.
Auer was standing in front of me, nibbling on his lip thoughtfully, hands on hips. We gave each other the obligatory clinical examination that occurs between two people playing for power. I noticed the dark rings under his eyes, and the sagging skin as well as the slight, impatient tick of someone who’d been too long off his cigarettes. He, what with the bruises and blood, didn’t have to be so subtle.
He waited for a long moment, collecting the theatrical credit, no doubt. Despite his thespian inclination, however, Auer was not a cliché villain, so the first thing he said as not an explanation of his diabolical plans.
He flicked a finger at my umbrella. “Take that from her.”
The older soldier who had brought me in darted forward from where he stood hidden in the shadows behind his back. He didn’t kick the umbrella from my hand, but simply reached out and plucked it in an immensely strong grip.
I promptly sprawled.
There was nothing theatrical, graceful, or dramatic about it. My legs simply gave out and, after a second of trembling, refused to bear my weight. I went down like someone’d taken a scythe to my ankles, and saved my nose from being broken only by taking the hit on both my hands. The throbbing left made me exclaim in pain before I bit my lip again. I gathered myself into a more or less kneeling position, supported by one hand, and glanced up. “Oh, bother.”
“My men don’t seem to like you much, Frau Rabinovich,” Auer observed mildly.
I swallowed blood and tears. “I confess, the feeling is not unreciprocated.”
“Your party is guilty of seven murders to date, madam. Without counting the men you killed before arriving here. You cannot blame them entirely for… expressing their frustration.” There were quiet hisses from the fringes, which Auer quieted with a negligent wave of his hand. I watched his Good Cop ploy with appreciation.
“But frustration, though understandable, is a wholly unproductive emotion. For which reason we shall continue this in my office. I will have water brought for you.” He eyed my arm (and head, and hands) with dry calculation. “And a bandage.”
“Charmed,” I said, a little more drily than I intended. “Now if I may regain my walking stick…?”
“Your walking stick?” he arched an eyebrow. “Or perhaps a weapon?”
“Made of plastic and cloth,” I paused to shift on the floor uncomfortably. “A cunning ploy, no doubt.”
He hesitated, visibly uncomfortable but already wavering. I saw the speculation in his eyes, and the attempt to decide upon my threat level. Women with walking sticks ranked rather low on it. I indicated the umbrella with a small, vague wave of my hand. “An accident, resulting in some minor motor brain damage. As you see, I require it, unless you’d rather impose on your men the inconvenience of having to carry me.”
That decided it. Women with walking sticks and motor brain damage, pitted against a large amount of tall, burly men, presented no threat at all. He turned to his lieutenant, eyebrow raised. “Examine it.”
The umbrella was lifted and scrutinized at eye level for several moments, then flicked open and closed. As a final test of my veracity, the soldier popped a plastic cap, and took hold of a spoke, flexing his arm slightly. The spoke bent out at an almost right angle, then snapped. Auer nodded slightly, and the soldier tossed me the broken umbrella, underhand.
I didn’t even try to catch it. When it came to rest on the floor, I levered myself up, with significant difficulty, throwing all my weight against the long spike. It ground into the floor, and held.
Auer was already half turned away, prepared to sweep from the room, gesturing at the older lieutenant and another soldier, nondescript amid the ranks of uniformed men. “Escort her.”
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter LXXIII
In Which A Veneer of Civilization Is Conjured
The way to Auer’s office had been eventless. There were some shouts and insults from passing soldiers, of course, and from time to time, someone tried to trip me. Occasionally they also succeeded. But, really, there was nothing remarkable.
I hardly paid attention. I was too busy trying to think and memorizing my path through the convoluted, labyrinthine corridors of the temple. Mostly, I was trying to prevent my brain from dissolving into gray sludge. I was, I’m afraid, succeeding only mildly. With what little remained of my attention that had not been dragged down under layers of sleeplessness, tiredness and pain, I focused on smoothing out the traces of pain from my face. In this, I succeeded a little better, though I regretted my inability to raise an arm and wipe off the tracks of involuntary tears.
The office itself was downright Spartan, due to the presence of makeshift furniture and a rather large amount of bare stone. Auer didn’t exactly strike me as a bare bones sort of person, but rather the mahogany desk and priceless paintings type, but I suppose one has to change one’s tastes somewhat to compensate for a period in which antiques weren’t invented yet, much less prices.
Auer got there before I did. Blast. I had no time to look the office over, even if only by sight, before I was being observed. Now all I could do was cast a rapid, covert glance, and discover no obvious back doors, convenient windows or handily placed weapons in plain sight.
At least I could face him composed.
“Frau Rabinovich, I understand from Victor that I can expect a modicum of civilized behaviour from you.” Auer sat behind his overturned-crate desk, sliding open a sort of shelf – it was not a drawer and sat on creaking, rigid wooden rails – stacked with paper and a handgun. I grimaced with a measure of distaste. It was obvious that, simply being under Auer's influence, Victor would talk, not even realizing how much he tells Auer with the smallest details. Nevertheless, it was unpleasant, being anticipated.
“Barring additional scratches up my arm,” I looked at him coolly, not permitting the chagrin to show. I knew about him less than he knew about me; it rankled.
“Frankly, madam, my men are boors,” I shivered, hearing that honorific from his mouth. It was disconcerting, also, how similar to Lorenzo he was. The physically disparate men radiated the same aura of blithe confidence in their own intelligence, distant cool and fierce romanticism veiled thinly by a layer of manners. “But you and I are, by all accounts, well-educated people, and such things are beneath us.”
“Indeed,” I murmured silkily. “We both kill people with all due and proper form. “
There was a flash of momentary, rapidly suppressed anger that disappeared amid amused coughing, but I saw it nonetheless, like a jolt of electricity across the room.
The resemblance shattered like a soap bubble, disappearing and taking behind it the disorientation and discomfort. I suppressed a grim sort of glee – or perhaps relief – at his little slip-up. Auer was not us after all; people like him might claim kinship – as he already did – with the philosophy of necessity, but they would not acknowledge the evil they did. That made them different, that made them fanatical, and that made them dangerous.
All he said, however, was, “have a seat.”
I did, if only because the alternative was splaying on the floor in a most undignified manner. I perched on a chair made of an overturned crate, and decided to forego the insolence of crossing my legs at the ankle or something. Auer glanced at me with a brief, flickering assessment, and I suddenly had a vision of Victor’s dirty boots resting on Auer’s neatly stacked papers.
“Due procedure has much to recommend for itself,” Auer said, his tone studiously amused. I raised an eyebrow slightly, and rested my hands, palms down, on the tabletop. "Regardless of opinions and biases, I can assure you that I have done my utmost in ensuring the preservation of civilized behavior. My men are, perhaps, enthusiastic in their duties, but one must forgive them the stress inherent to the task, at hand. You, yourself, must be feeling the weight of the long months out of your proper time?"
I smiled at him, and lied through my teeth. “I enjoy the rustic.”
“But surely, the lack of magic,” he waved a hand in an expansive gesture, encompassing the room and the world beyond it. “Mondavi, as a mage, could not find this place comfortable, though this is not the case for you. Even my soldiers--” The door opened quietly, and a soldier came in carrying a large basin of water and a cloth. Auer held up his hand, forestalling any response that I was about to make. A moment of nicely calculated candour, I thought dourly.
The soldier disposed of the materials, and spent a moment glaring at me before Auer, timing his good cop persona with a little bit of threat, waved him off.
“Be my guest, please,” he gestured to the basin and cloth like a good host. “I would follow this with drinks, perhaps some refreshment, but, as you see, the environment precludes. As I was saying; even my own soldiers are quite uncomfortable with this mundane world.”
“I’ve never been uncomfortable with the mundane world.” I reached for the water and cloth eagerly. “It’s the non-mundane one that bothers me. All these seemingly random mana flows…”
“You can see them?” His eyebrows flew up in surprise; either a moment of genuinely excellent acting, or genuine astonishment.
“Anyone can, if they put a mind to it.” I wrung the cloth out, and started applying it to the long gashes on my arm. They were surprisingly deep towards the middle, and could use some stitches. I busied myself for a moment with the best way to clean out a wound in front of the examining eyes of a hostile presence without making a fool of myself. The pain in my arm had much to say for itself; I focused upon trying to calculate the benefits of maintaining a stony façade versus the benefits of showily wincing. “I generally find it immensely distracting, and don’t.”
“Well, if you would not concede the point of magic to me,” Auer said expansively, “”I would appeal to the medic and point out the abundance of disease!”
I grimaced in forced agreement. “This place is a pest-hole.”
“There, you see!” Auer looked excited and gratified. I’d finally given him the end of a thread to pull, and he was ready to yank on it will all his power. “We see eye to eye in this. And there is much I could offer you.” He leaned forward on his rickety tabletop, and the flimsy wood of the crate groaned under his significant weight. “You understand, I’m sure, that I need trained personnel, and that I am willing to make arrangements for them.”
“Unless your soldiers kill them in a moment of emotionality.”
“Victor Kushan is a testimony – a living testimony, I note! – that my men can do better. It is in their own interest to procure a medic, just as it is in your interest to procure a harbor, in these very dangerous times.”
I blinked in almost palpable shock, expecting any tactic but this. Surely the man could not believe… “Do you know what you’re asking?”
“For you to do what is clearly conscionable to you. Young Victor says you are a dedicated medic, and I would simply give you the opportunity to continue serving as one. Well protected. Safe. Why not?”
I smiled mildly. “You are an anti-Semite, Herr Auer.’
“Much less than you think and no more so than most. Really, madam, we both know that all Europeans are little anti-Semites. I hold no personal dislike, of course. As for the rest, even your friend, Mondavi… I am astounded that a man of his background would find himself in such company.“
I had to smile at that, a genuine emotion. “I’m as shocked as you are.”
"Perhaps he makes an exception for so unique an individual. And so, I assure you, can I." Auer's flattery was, at the least, not unctuous. I wondered he treated Victor the way. He must have done, though surely with the young man he must have been more overt. "Personally, I prefer to take nationalism to its positives, rather than observe its negatives. Surely, Frau Rabinovich, after working with Mondavi you cannot find work with me distasteful."
"What do you mean?" I rested my injured hand on the table, allowing some sensation to return, and grasped the head of my umbrella gently with the right.
"Surely, as close as Victor implies you are, you know of his past!"
"Victor," I said levelly, and tried not to lick my lips, "implies too much." What had the young man told Auer? What had he let slip through his silences? I was reacting, rather than acting, and that did not thrill me. I had a goal to accomplish. I should feign utter cooperation… no, surely Auer is not that stupid.
“Assuage my curiousity, then. Are you involved with Mondavi or did he shanghai you into lending him your expertise?”
“Lorenzo,” I said through clenched teeth, “is a fascinating personality with an equally fascinating history. I beg you, Mr. Auer, do treat me like an adult. Your implications of his inherent evilness bore me to tears.”
He grimaced. “I suppose it was worth a try. Consider the pragmatic aspects, then. Unlike our much esteemed friend,” the sneer in his voice was slight, but obvious, “I have prepared for the possibility that this reality may be considerably more distressful than you anticipated. As a result, I brought medications with me that rely on nothing more than human knowledge and ability. No supersciece. No magic.”
I gaped at him foolishly, and felt the world turn red.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
He's still dancing around her questions at the end there...
My Stories
Look at that. A full-grown woman pulling off pigtails. Her crazy is off the charts.
Chapter LXXIV
In Which Fanatics are Picturesque
“You knew?” Through the red haze, I heard my own voice speak softly. Too softly. It was a whisper, almost a hiss. I fought for control through blistering anger and surging hate, and prayed that Auer’s ability to figure me out had not gone that far yet.
“Oh, I anticipated, after a fashion,” said Auer blithely, eyes glinting amusement. “Not in detail, of course, otherwise I would not have brought poor Krueger.”
“Your Warwolf.” I gained control of my voice with a rather startling amount of difficulty, until it returned to something close to its usual timbre. Still it had an edge that I could not entirely remove. “Why, what is wrong with him?”
“The field leaves him shape-locked, unable to transform. I am afraid his mind is going.” Perhaps for the first time I detected a note of genuine feeling in the cultured, carefully voice. Everything about the man had been a show but he, too, had his weaknesses – or were they strengths? – of genuine emotion. It was ironic that even in weakness we were each other’s mirror image. The Warwolf clearly was his friend.
“I see.”
“I refused to take with me any of the nonsense our organization occasionally plays around with; none of these alien freaks, or manufactured vampires,” Auer’s lip drooped slightly in his disdain. “I had no notion of how they would react to the absence of all interference from above – but a Warwolf?”
I thought furiously, staring up at the elderly, somewhat haggard face. My time was running out. Soon, Lorenzo and Rostov – and Garent – would be approaching. I couldn’t tell just how soon; I had no watch on me, and my sense of time, such as it was, had been demolished by the repetitive beatings. So long as I was sitting here, in Auer’s little office, the passage into the temple would remain unopened.
On the other hand, such insight as I was gaining was significant. Furthermore, Auer’s face was growing somewhat abstracted as he spoke. His attention wandered from me, his desk and the pistol upon his desk occasionally in fits of scholarly contemplation. I was prone to such fits myself, but I was desperate. I decided to keep him talking, make suitable noises of encouragement, and wait.
“Unfortunately, in a way, this device has proven even more useful than even I anticipated,” Auer said offhandedly. “And, of course, the place and time provided a suitable preliminary experiment.”
“To observe the reactions and extrapolate for modern-day Earth,” I supplied the obvious conclusion. “But the radius of the action is surely limited…?”
“Oh, I have no doubt. But how limited? As small as a city; as wide as a country? Could I cover Germany with it? Or just your state of Rhode Island?”
I shivered, concealing the grimace my face was shifting into without volition under a mask of curious composure. It was difficult. I could help seeing Garent, the way he had been the first day, when the shock of events had not yet settled in, and his inherent stoicism and good common sense had not yet taken over. The look of terror and helplessness, and then of tired, depressed loneliness.
In the end, our lives didn’t matter. We had to stop this man. We had to stop him from wreaking havoc on history, and from manipulating the present to suit his dreams.
The situation was more ironic than Auer could possibly grasp.
“You see, Frau Rabinovich. The situation is turning distinctly to my advantage. If I did not think it too callous, I would, perhaps, point out to you that it is worthwhile for you to bet on the winning horse.”
“I dislike horseracing on principle,” I couldn’t altogether keep the distaste out of my voice.
‘Yet you clearly threw in your lot with Mondavi. I see no substantial difference aside from matters of personal loyalty, and, unlike your friend, I do not have a record of betraying allies.”
“Except in this specific case,” I pointed out.
“I consider it a measure for measure.”
“Why?” I felt my eyebrow shoot up and did not bother suppressing an ironic smile. “Because well over half a century ago, he had an idea vaguely reminiscent in mechanics of your own? Tempora mutantis, Herr Auer. And we, as they say, change with them.”
“Do we?” He rose abruptly, thrusting the chair behind his back with a forceful gesture. “Or are we, in essence, always the same? When Sargon swept across the Sumerian empire with conquest and the wrath of the gods at his back, bearing a new world order in his clutches, was he the last savage, the first civilized man, or merely the same as everybody else?”
He bore down on the shabby table with the open palms of his hands and the flimsy wood creaked menacingly under his weight. Involuntarily, I drew back from the nearing, red face, and the eyes so inconveniently lit with the fire of fanatical philosophy. I identified too much Nietzsche in the man’s diet. It told in the florid, overweight style, and combustive eruptions. “We never change as a species, madam. Why should we change as individuals?”
“At the least, when Lorenzo was pulling his personal stunt he wasn’t doing it for the benefit of an organization.”
“Does that make a difference? Your dear friend,” Auer’s tone dripped with enough sarcasm to drown the room, “was going on his holy war with a holocaust in mind. I don’t want a holocaust. Far from it…”
“So you’ve advanced considerably,” I parried dryly and saw him flush.
He threw up his hands, and started pacing, round and round the table and my chair, pausing at dramatic intervals.
“Everything you dislike so much in me,” Auer was saying, his voice shifting to match the cadence of his footsteps, “exists in the people you associate with, in greater quantities. After all, what is the difference between us? We both, madam, wanted a utopia to be shaped in our own image. Your friend wanted perfect liberation from the supernatural- ever the Enlightenment man – and I want liberation from the political – ever the nationalist.”
I watched the gun.
It sat there, alone, unattended, and incredibly inviting. Auer’s lecture was, in its own way, fascinating, if only in the sheer amount of logical fallacies and temerity it exhibited, but I was, let us say frankly, too well-read to swallow up so many villain clichés. Not to mention I was on a time limit.
I was just a little too far. The gun was almost within easy reach, but not quite. To get to it, I would have to stretch over the gap between my chair and the table, lean forward and take the pistol from where it lay. A matter of a few seconds to be sure, but Auer was not as slow as all that and, old and arthritic though he was, he was still stronger than I. He’d get the weapon first. Or, if not, he would simply clobber me over the head with something before I could aim and fire. In order to reach the gun easily, I would have to stand. And to stand without undue notice, I would have to appear angry.
“We both,” Auer continued his oration almost entirely carried away by his own logic, “realize that the key, ah-hah, to everything, is magic. Magic rules the world these days! These who have no part in it are forever deficient… Unlike Mondavi, I have no lifetime to spare to acquire such talents as he has for myself. So I have to be a little more direct and creative.”
I shot to my feet. Anger wouldn’t be difficult at all. At all.
“At least Lorenzo had the courtesy, even at his worst, to realize that what he did was evil. You, Herr Auer, I half-growled into his face, surprised myself by my own sincerity, “are a romantic of the worst sort; one who doesn’t realize how impeded his perception is by romanticism. He may very well have been a well-intentioned extremist with a knack for horrifying ends justify the means policies, but you… you aren’t even that. Your good intentions are an absolute fraud, that’s why you find it so necessary to be convincing, and command a goon squad.”
I fired off the tirade in one breath. Auer’s face worked furiously as I held his eyes and he bared his teeth in an expression of distinct hatred. He was working himself into a high fury, and he was staring daggers at me, his gaze unblinking.
That was the whole point.
“Your plans are dangerous,” I told him as my hand slid down slightly, grasping the umbrella next to my chair by the middle. Slowly, as my mouth was spitting words, I drew it up with trembling fingers, and slid it gently across the tabletop, the handle of my umbrella lining up with the body of the pistol. “But far more dangerous is your blindness to how frightening a monster you really are. At least I, and mine, are sufficiently self-aware to recognize what sort of people we are, deep inside. If Lorenzo were here, he would kill you without hesitation, though shooting you is like shooting a mirror.”
I pulled, and the pistol slid across the tabletop with a rattle. Auer whirled, gaping, as I reached as fast as I could and held the pistol up, I pointed the weapon directly at him.
“And so will I. I never was superstitious about mirrors.”
I braced, and pulled the trigger, aiming directly at Auer’s chest.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter LXXV
In Which Some Sharp Truths Are Brought to Bear
The hammer of the pistol clicked hollowly on an empty chamber.
I tried again with, you may imagine, entirely identical results. Unharmed and completely complacent, Auer chuckled.
“I am not an idiot, Frau Rabinovich. You’re very ingenious,” he made a step toward me and grabbed the arm in which I held the pistol, “but I am hardly the sort of person not to take precautions. The magazine is quite empty.”
He squeezed and I choked out a small gasp of pain. The gun clattered to the floor. “In fact,” Auer rummaged with his other hand in a pocket, coming out with a full magazine and a bullet box, “I do have the ammunition right here, just for such circumstances.”
“It was a good attempt, madam,” he smiled at me. “But, alas, not good enough.”
“Then,” I said through clenched teeth, hammering the pain into my voice, “we must do with what we have.”
The umbrella, still clutched in my left, came up through the air. Then it arced to land on his stomach. I felt a tearing, burning pain in my arm as the wounds from earlier came open with an agonizing jolt, and the bandage became soaked with blood. I only noticed the detail in passing.
Auer, frantic with an understanding that was not quite complete, was pushing against my arm, trying to drive me back. I, on my end, pressed forward. The umbrella tip was now resting on Auer’s belly. It felt in my hands like the blade of a rapier. I let the tension in my right hand slacken, for just a second, and allowed Auer to push me back. The tension in his hand, too, slacked in reaction. He opened his mouth, beginning to say something.
I lunged with my arm at almost full extension, throwing my entire weight against the handle of the umbrella.
The spokes of the umbrella were, of course, light aluminium. But the handle was a good, wooden one, and the shaft of the umbrella, from base to tip, was a slender, almost needle-sharp cylindrical length of steel. I had made a significant number of enemies in my life, and though I was crippled and weak, I had no desire to meet them unarmed. I carried a light, strong poniard, wrapped in bits of useful material and fitted with a curved grip.
The steel tip hesitated momentarily against the resistance of cloth and skin, then drove inward. I could feel, under my arm, the tension as skin stretched and punctured, and the parting of fatty tissues and muscle. Blood welled, then spurted as the pressure increased. Auer, mouth open wide, reached out to clutch at his stomach. He opened and closed his mouth several times, but there was no breath in him to scream. The box of bullets and the magazine clattered to the floor. It was the only sound except for my laboured breathing, and the tearing, almost hypersonic moan Auer emitted. I pressed on, and he grasped the shaft of the umbrella with trembling hands, sliding down to the floor, with me following suit.
There was warm blood trickling down my face and splotches besmirched the front of my ridiculous Akkadian poncho. I didn’t have a hand to spare to wipe them. Auer and I, both faces set in a rictus of agony and effort, were struggling for control of the weapon embedded in Auer’s gut.
Let me tell you something; stabbing a person with an umbrella is devilishly hard. The human skin is resistance, supple and elastic. Penetrating it even with a single thrust is like breaking through a tough plastic sheet. Inside, everything is built to obstruct the most direct path to a person’s vitals, and so the damage I was doing was slow and non-lethal. I had both hands on the umbrella now, leaning down hard while Auer’s hands, with desperate strength, clawed for his freedom. He grabbed my fingers and I could practically hear one of them snap as he yanked a hand free.
There was a sudden rush of sounds sweeping through the flimsy door. A rattle of several automatic weapons, then the thunderclap of grenades.
Both Auer and I slackened our grips on the umbrella. I regained my equilibrium first, ad drove the spike upwards, jarring it against Auer’s ribcage with a rattling of teeth. Finally, he had found enough air in his lungs to scream with the pain. The cry was loud enough to overcome the chaos outside and, anyhow, the door was already bursting open on its own. One of the soldiers on guard – the soldier with the unpleasant leer and foolish mien – appeared in the doorway, a concerned look on his face.
“Sir, there’s some guy who’s shooting the heads off of everybody an’ their dog, sir! What are we gonna— Sir?” He did a double take as he finally noticed the prone Auer and me, leaning over him, my face grim. He groped for his rifle.
I grabbed the magazine and the gun from the floor, and jammed the one into the other. Then I rose onto a knee and shot him, smoothly, in the torso. One of the bullets hit his armoured shoulder and he too, screamed in pain. The second took him in the chest with a crunch of ribs. I imagined that I could almost hear the air whistle out of his punctured lung. He bubbled as he fell. I shot him once more, for comfort.
When I turned back to Auer, he was struggling to sit up, pulling at the umbrella protruding grotesquely from his chest. I whirled on him, feeling the panic- and perhaps a certain amount of bile – rise up in my throat, and threw my weight again onto the handle. The wood creaked under the strain and Auer screamed once more.
From outside, and along the corridors, gunfire exploded in a cloud of echoes. Rostov! I suddenly realized. It had to have been Rostov, making his last – or one before last, or at least one in a series – stand. That also meant my time was far, far beyond short.
Auer lay on the floor, panting, his breathing laboured and gurgling (the diaphragm must have been hit) clutching with numb fingers at the steel shaft still protruding out of his abdominal cavity. Pain lines made him look profoundly old. I dropped down heavily, and sat by his head, staring at him while he led.
After a minute or so, his eyes fluttered open and swiveled to stare at me.
“I am sorry, Herr Auer. We had a fascinating discussion but, alas, I have to go. Time is short.”
“Ah… Frau Rabinovich. It was a… pleasant acquaintance…” Auer mumbled, voice unsteady, but still managed a faint smile. I had to give the man at least the ability to die with grace. “How sad that you lied to me. Lied to a dying man…”
I stared at him, looking at the haggard face, which was now devoid of the light of fanaticism, and was tired of lying. Or maybe it is simply difficult to lie in front of a mirror. “Yes,” I said gently, lifting his head to my knee, ”I have.”
Then I pressed the muzzle of Auer’s pistol to the back of Auer’s head, and pulled the trigger one more time.
I peered shakily up and down the corridor leading to Auer’s office. To my astonishment, it was quite empty. Apparently, most of the guards decided to go see what could be done about Rostov. The guard who walked into Auer’s room and to his doom, I recalled, had come for instructions; the rest must have been waiting for such, then. Even if they didn’t hear the gunshots from the office in the tumult – a circumstance I couldn’t count on – they would send someone to ask for Auer’s directions if such failed to arrive.
They would, of course, see the body and know an enemy was on the loose. I wiped my bloody hands on my skirt distastefully, and hobbled as fast as I could along the corridor. Since the opening I recall seeing was on the eastern wall of the temple, and I was somewhere towards the middle, I tried to get my bearings and shamble in at least the approximately right direction.
The corridor split, and I hesitated, picking a branch and skulking along it , much too focused on listening for pursuit or footsteps to look ahead, and was unpleasantly surprised by the dead end into which the passage turned. I had to retrace my steps, and take the alternate turn.
The guards pounced me from behind the wall before I could even attempt to draw my gun.
The first one slammed a fist into my shoulder, and the hit was sufficient to send me staggering off into the nearest wall. If we were in a film, my outline would have been drawn on the wall. Sadly, perhaps, this was not a film, nor was the wall a chalk one. I bounced off the stone and fell to the floor. Again.
“I guess the boss is dead now,” said a voice over my head. “Wonder how that happened. I also guess he doesn't need to keep you as a pet anymore, so I also guess we can do what we want.”
“Maybe we can have some fun with her,” someone else offered, and yet another boot nudged my ribs. I grabbed it before it could retreat – since it was being slow and playful – and yanked. There was a surprised exclamation and a thump. I smiled satisfaction.
“You didn' get enough with them from town you want to try for this ugly weasel?” The first voice's inquiry was sarcastic. “I say we kill her now.”
“Much obliged,” said I, and sprang into action.
All right; limped into action while trying to pick myself off the floor. It wasn’t much of one, but I did give them the best fight I could, now that I no longer had to restrain myself. The gun I carried had tumbled out of my hand with the first blow, and in the melee it was impossible to pick it up, though I wished I could.
I was growing desperate. My part in the plan was key, and I might never be able to fulfill it, now. At least, I supposed, Auer – the organizing, driving force behind the great plan, as well as the little details – would be dead. Lorenzo and Rostov with a bit of help from Garent should have no trouble taking down the rest of the disorganized, not terribly bright soldiers. I had, after all, known what I was going to.
I kneed a soldier in the gut – a lucky hit, the man doubled over, swearing and crying out – and then a firm hand yanked at my hair; down, down, down, till I felt as though every strand would tear out of my scalp. I dropped to the floor, screaming more in anger than in agony.
Then things started happening too fast. There was just an overwhelming feeling of pain, and a crunch in my chest after a foot – the seven or eight today – found its mark in my ribs. Then I’m afraid I blacked out, more or less yearning to die already.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter LXXVI
In which a Good Pun is its Own Reword
The sounds of gunshots and explosions can carry for miles all around. It has problems penetrating things like solid stone walls, but the temple was about as solid as a steel-reinforced house of cards, at this point, what with all the passages and ventilation holes that had been added to it over the last couple months. The Nazis had been a little surprised to find out that the Middle East was hot (I know!), so one of the things we'd had to do was set up some elaborate systems of fans and high holes in order to keep good airflow in this place.
Needless, to say, when fighting started happening out in the city, I heard it right away. And I was happy.
The last couple days, the Nazis had been grumbling more than usual and kicking me less than usual, so I knew something was up. I had hoped that it was my brother, but they weren't telling me much even the ones I bribed with beer from the still I'd been working on. But now? Now I knew.
I'd know Ros' havoc anywhere.
I was down in the lab at the time, which was the best place to be the second best being my room since it was where I kept the most important of my stuff the rest kept in, duh, my room. The Nazis didn't have much in the way of engineering talent, so I was doing maintenance on their guns, taking them apart and putting them back together and, like with all things, every time I put them back together, I had extra parts left over. After awhile, I had enough extra parts that I could repair guns that had been completely busted...
I'm not really sure I want to know what they were doing that kept busting their guns up, though firing them in such a sandy environment can cause all kinds of havoc, and it couldn't possibly be because I kept sabotaging their weapons each time... Heh heh.
So, anyways, while I was working on the things like the generators and the still, I was also working on my plan to bust out of here and help out my bro when he finally showed up.
Shouldn't you go find out what's going on? I asked my guard.
He shook his head. Nah. Not my business. They'll call me if they need me.
Not the least bit curious? I was rummaging around in the pile of parts that I'd hidden the key components of my plans. I know I am!
Nope.
I sighed. I kind of liked this guy; he was downright friendly once I started bribing people with beer. Too bad.
I yanked out of the pile my makeshift rifle, a Frankengun to make the craziest of mad scientists proud, and pulled the trigger, spraying nails at supersonic speeds. It had a real kick to it, I couldn't aim for the broad side of an Akkadian temple, and it tended to empty the entire thing of nails in two seconds, but from the look of my pal bleeding from all over with little shiney bits of metal sticking out it didn't matter.
On second thought, I'd been wanting to steal his uniform and rifle, but now they're kind of nailed to his body. Oops.
I grabbed a few boxes of extra nails homemade, mostly and darted out of the lab. The hallway was empty, no surprise there, but I wasn't taking many chances and kept an eye out in each direction. My first stop would need to be my room, where I kept my old clothes and some of gadgets, and then I'd need to hit Heinrich's office, where my PDA was.
Oh, yeah, and where Heinie was. I kind of liked the old bat, but there was no way I was going to just walk out of here, so he'd have to be a hostage. Oh well.
I only had to fill one guy with hot lead on my way to my room they were probably out fighting Ros and I changed quickly, listening to more gunfire in the distance. My old clothes would be a big help for this, since they were darker and meant for sneaking around, and also because of the spidersilk wea-
Wait. That last gunfire wasn't in the distance at all! It came from... Heinrich's office?
I wasn't sure what to make of that. Did Ros already make it to the temple? Was that Lorenzo or Garent? Or did Auer shoot one of his own men again?
I went out a bit more carefully than I came in. For all I knew, there would be a horde of soldiers in the hallway coming up. A few twists and turns, and- And a familiar sound from around the upcoming bend to the hallway just outside the office. That was the sound of a good beating; it was nice not being on the receiving end, but still... Who?
I edged up to the corner, then peaked around. A few soldiers were kicking some old native woman I couldn't see her much, since she had balled up and it looked they were trying to decide whether to **** her or shoot her. I can't say I'm much of a fan of either, the bastards, and when one of them started making to undo his belt, I knew it was time to act. I'd give myself away but, meh, that's less soldiers to have chasing me later. Besides, **** just ain't okay, you know?
I came around the corner and emptied the entire tray of nails, trying my best to keep the spray of fire in an upwards arc so as not to accidentally kill the random civilian. The soldiers fell down quickly, their bodies blood red with silver polkadots. Still no go on stealing their uniforms, but at least I could take their rifles. The nailgun was working really well, but at this rate, I'd only get two or three more encounters before it ran out. Awesome But Impractical, indeed.
I slung the ABI-1000 behind my back and knelt down to help the girl. I nearly jumped when I rolled her over and-
Sofia?
She wasn't conscious, and she looked like the entire Nazi Party had risen from the grave and stepped on her. I didn't have any medical supplies on me, but I knew where we kept our crappy makeshift incompetent infirmary. But first...
I halfway picked her up and dragged her to the door of Heinrich's office. The door was open unusual so I peaked in; Auer wasn't there, but a dead Nazi was. I guess he did shoot his own man... Or maybe Sofia shot him? I dragged her in and propped her against the wall while I went to search Heinie's desk.
And found him laying behind it, an umbrella sticking out of his chest and bullet in his head.
What the fu-
Victor!
I looked back at the owner of the umbrella and grinned. She didn't like people swearing in her presence. You did this?
She nodded and immediately winced. We had an argument. He lost.
Hehe... He got the thrust of your-
Victor.
Well, he got the poi-
Victor! She shook her head. I'm in no condition for your puns. I'm barely hanging on as it is.
Alright, alright, just let me get a few things... I fished through the drawers I'd built myself when we replaced his old desk, and pulled out my PDA. It had the schematics I'd made of the temple, amongst a few other things. There. We can raid the infirmary for bandages, then make our way to the top exit. Is Ros outside?
Yes, but we aren't going that way.
I blinked. We aren't?
No. There's a secret exit, we're taking that one.
How did she know about that? I shrugged. Okay, yeah, I know where it is.
We'll meet up with Garent and Lorenzo there, she explained as I helped her onto her feet. They've got my medical supplies, so unless your infirmary is directly on the way, we won't bother with it.
Nah. It's upstairs.
Oh well... She sighed wistfully as we hobbled out of the room. My guess is that she really, really wanted painkillers. I can't blame her. She looked down at my gun. What is that you're carrying?
Just a little something I put together over the last month. I hefted it proudly. It's a crudimentary railgun.
Crudi- She shook her head. You have a way with words, Victor."
Thanks!
"You could be president!
I took one last look at Heinrich and laughed. It really was silly, the umbrella sticking up out of him like a flag. Who was I traveling with, the Penguin? Sofia gave me a look and I grimaced. Sorry, gut reaction.
Global @Diellan - 5M2M
Mids' Hero/Villain Designer Lead
Virtue Server
Redside: Lorenzo Mondavi
Blueside: Alex Rabinovich
Got a Mids suggestion? Want to report a Mids bug?
Chapter LXXVII
In Which the Spectre of Loss and Failure Overshadows
By sheer force of will and adrenaline, I was able to ignore the pain in my leg and regain my footing. With no small amount of difficulty, I managed to get my arms under Mister Ward's shoulders and drag him across to the base of the temple, propping him up against the stone surface.
Lorenzo? Is that you? He grimaced in pain and nodded. Ah. It is. It's... hard to... concentrate. Keep... link.
That is well enough, Mi- Garent, I replied. You should be conserving your strength.
He laughed, then groaned. Deathbed delirium?
I ripped open his robe and recovered the bag he had been carrying, retrieving Madam Rabinovich's medkit. I am no combat medic but I've had more than my fair share of battlefield promotions to the position. Admittedly, my experience is nearly a century out of date, but Madam Rabinovich, a combat medic and emergency medical technician in her own right, made certain to update my education with a more modern theory of first aid.
By this point, blood had soaked a simple majority of my companion's clothing, with the prevalence of it on his abdomen and upper legs. Further investigation told me he had been hit twice once near the stomach and once at the waist of which only the former had an exit wound.
It appears you have one bullet lodged in your pelvis, I announced, but you can count your lucky stars that it does not seem that an artery has been hit.
He stared blankly, so I repeated myself, and he grunted with acknowledgment. So I'll die slowly... rather than quickly? Great...
I turned to the medical kit with some consternation, my mind running through all I had been taught. If he had been wounded in a limb, then I could apply a tourniquet of some kind to cut off circulation until we could recover magic, but as it was, my only recourse was the classic bandage and pressure.
Slowly would be preferable. I fished out some alcohol for cleaning the wound along with a large amount of gauze and elastic bandage. You just need to last an hour, by which point, we will have magic back and you will return to your nearly invincible self.
An hour... of this? He gave a sharp cry of pain as I began dressing one of the wounds. I wish we werent conserving ammo
or Id have you shoot me right now.
I was pleased to find that he was coherent and jocular, as I was deeply afraid of his rapid blood loss leading to hypovolemic shock. It was inevitable - if I didnt stop the bleeding soon. Alas, I replied, masking my worries, when forced to choose between a dead Garent and a dead Nazi, the cards do not fall in your favor.
He chuckled, which quickly turned into a coughing fit. You could ju
resurrect me after
magic back
itd be... win-win
I raised an eyebrow at him. I am experienced with spirit magics and necromancy, Mister Ward. I am no saint, to call you out of your tomb; my bringing you back would come with a severe price. I had not told them this during our planning before, when I said I could bring back any person who perishes, but they hadn't needed to know. I was willing to pay the price on their behalf.
Can't be... worse than... this...
I shook my head. I have to take your spirit and put it into a body. If this body is dead, then you will be some form of ghoul or other undead, plagued with all that entails.
I don't... I don't need a body... He gave me an embarrassed look, though it was hard to tell given how pale he had become. I'm not exactly... human. I mean... I am, but... not...
I examined his face then, and put a finger to his pulse. He was exhibiting all the signs of extreme blood loss, and I knew that it would not be long before he would go into hypovolemic shock. I wasn't sure whether or not it would be better to keep him talking keeping consciousness is important, but so is conserving strength and wished that Madam Rabinovich were here.
My father... He swallowed, find talk difficult, but he was focused so I did not interrupt him and stuck to keeping pressure on his wounds. From other dimension... Can't die... If soul remains.
I blinked in surprise. I had gotten inklings from his conversations with others that there was something more about him, and I had certainly noticed that his magic was different from those that I was familiar with, but I had never asked out of respect for his privacy. Can't?
I... reform, he elaborated, though I couldn't tell if he could hear me. With his voice breaking constantly, I couldn't imagine him managing to maintain whatever concentration he required to read my thoughts. From water vapor. Don't need... body.
A strange revelation, not altogether surprising given his masterly control over that particular element, and my mind started working rapidly. Could I even bring him back if he died? This antimagic field had turned him into a mundane human, so if he perished, his soul might very well move on to whatever next world there was (even worse, it might move on to some Akkadian afterlife). Could I find him there, pull him out? I had summoned spirits before, souls without flesh, but they never stayed and always faded on their own. With time, I am sure I could find a way, but...
I dare not risk it.
I looked down at the bandages, tightly wrapped around his abdomen. They could not be sufficient, this I knew, and keeping pressure was difficult. Too many wounds, horrible spot with no real bone or muscle to apply pressure against. Both of my hopes Madam Rabinovich and the Gem of Etnekhsa were on the other side of the wall. Once again, magic was failing me.
I have been so reliant upon it, I had said to Madam Rabinovich the night before, as we stared out over the dying fire, having discussed our plans for the following day. When I was much younger, I had someone very important to me perish. We had tried everything every medicine and treatment, quakery or otherwise and it had come to nothing. I was helpless, lost in a world without control.
She had nodded, then, her eyes understanding. She had probably guessed all of this some time before.
I went to the mediums and evangelists and any of a million people who could claim to speak to the dead... I grimaced. They were just as fake as the snake oils we had wasted our fortune on, but I persisted and... And I found true magic.
It's about control. Control over everything, even life and death.
I did not tell her of my great failures the men I had lost in the Great War, the woman I had failed to resurrect but she knew anyway. All that control had been lost the moment the vortex hit us, and even now, with success so close, I might very well lose another.
But more, I added, it's a part of me now... magic. It is not painful, this loss, and yet
it is. Like waking up one morning to learn that your leg was taken away in the night. You remember the walking, the support, the feel of gravel sliding around your foot and the tension in your calf as you bend your ankle, and some part of you aches to feel it again. The brain, in its fevered desires, conjures phantom nerve signals.
I see
she had muttered darkly. I could see the thoughts running through her mind as she built a psychiatric profile of what I was going through or would be going through shortly, once the impact of what was happening had time to sink in and the absence began to take its toll. Shes like that.
I remember seeing people dismembered in the wars, and- I paused a moment, as images flashed through my mind. The loss of limb was worse than life: to a soldier it meant immediate discharge to a life forever changed. The lucky died. And for some it is easy they adapt, they survive, and soon nobody can ever remember them as a whole person and for others
Madness, generally. Feelings of uselessness and overpowering angst. Despair. I caught the look in her eyes and shook my head. At the moment, I am feeling bewilderment, madam, though I will admit to some general inklings of fear. I would like to think I am made of sterner stuff.
A grinding sound interrupted my reverie, and the ground and more importantly, the wall! - began to shake. It slid open, revealing an interior passage well lit by torches and a string of fluorescent bulbs that had been nailed into the ceiling like in a makeshift military bunker. I rose to my feet, swinging the rifle around to the front and putting my finger on the trigger, but there was no need.
Victor!
The young man grinned back at me impudently. He had apparently recovered his old clothes. Miss me?!
More than you will ever hear me admit, I replied, and immediately began searching the passage. Where is Madam Rabinovich?
The person in question stumbled around a pillar that she had been using for support, and nearly lost all balance. She caught a protruding stone with dirty hand and gave us a grimace. Is it too much to hope I have been missed, too?
Madam! I shouted, forgetting Mister Ward momentarily and rushing to assist her before she fell. She appeared to have gone through a not insignificant amount of torture, her body bruised and bleeding, one eye red from a burst vessel. How many beatings did they give you?
You should think of it as only one beating, she waved a hand vaguely in the air, with a few breaks along the way.
I furrowed my brow as my brain finally caught on to the weird part of her stumbling. Where's your umbrella?
Victor Kushan snickered. Heiney didn't get why she kept it around, but he saw the point eventually. I told him it was bad luck to open those things indoors but nooooo, he couldn't stomach leaving it alone.
Madam Rabinovich and I proceeded to give a performance of synchronized eye rolling. I left it implanted in Auer's gut, she explained, then looked up over my shoulder. Where's Garent?
Global @Diellan - 5M2M
Mids' Hero/Villain Designer Lead
Virtue Server
Redside: Lorenzo Mondavi
Blueside: Alex Rabinovich
Got a Mids suggestion? Want to report a Mids bug?
Chapter LXXVIII
In Which Procedure Is Abandoned, and Necessity Is the Mother of Invention
For a moment, I thought the strength and variety of emotions in one small place would make me faint.
I refused to acknowledge the possibility that the true perpetrators of the loss of consciousness would be my broken ribs, wounded arm, and severe exhaustion. I was too exhilarated, and thrilled, and frightened enough to feel the bottom drop out of my stomach and the nausea climb up in waves. I was shaking hard enough to feel my teeth clatter a little, and realized I was probably feeling the mixed reaction of hysteria and minor shock. My mind, not too steady just at present, was doing cartwheels between giddy exclamations of ‘he really does care’ and loud sounds of alarm.
“You impaled Auer?” Lorenzo sounded just a little stunned.
“And then I shot him,” I told him dryly. “I didn’t like his manner of argument. Should I apologize for depriving you of your enemy?”
“That… won’t be necessary, I think,” he gave me the sort of look that I, years of familiarity aside, could not decipher.
“Where is Garent?” I reiterated, frowning uneasily, staring up at him. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Lorenzo! What’s wrong?” Instead of answering, he turned me slightly sideways, until the light from outside the temple helped colour the entryway, rather than conceal it.
I thought I’d been scared before. That the beatings, the uncertainty, the casual brutality, and the killing were as far into the reaches of fear as one could possibly get. That I took my share of pain and managed it quite well, and combated the greatest of my fears quite admirably.
I was wrong.
“Oh God,” I groaned, sagging in despair and, at the same time, trying to pull myself together. “Help me.”
It took both Lorenzo and Victor, each holding me by an arm, to get me through the few meters necessary but I was kneeling at Garent’s head in less time than it took me to give the instructions. My bag lay open by his side, and I reached for it. I reached inside while Lorenzo provided a terse description of the battle, the wounds, and the few measures he himself managed to take.
I reached into my bag, withdrawing the flashlight by touch, then thrust it up into Victor’s hands. Under the beam of spilling light, I examined Garent again, confirming, on the whole, Lorenzo’s initial diagnosis.
He was pale as a sheet, and shivering, occasionally kneading his fingers in midair as though he were grasping for something in a gesture of anxiety typical of severe shock and blood loss. Worst of all, though, under the pressure bandages Lorenzo applied, the blood seepage continued, relentless and unstopping. It was slow, did not show the gush typical of arterial blood, and was restrained by the pressure, but so long as it continued, things would only get worse for Garent. He might bleed to death before anything more could be done. I wished I could simply deposit a wound like that in the reliable hands of several trauma surgeons and a large amount of machinery but, alas, the nearest hospital was five millennia distant. There was only a pack of very upset soldiers, several wounded, tired people, and me. I reached for my bag again, and it slipped out of my hand.
“What can I hand you, madam?” Lorenzo hovered anxiously.
I bared my teeth in a snarl, and flipped the bag over impatiently. ”Several litres of blood.”
He looked stricken, and I felt immediate remorse. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Madam—‘ He was beginning to say something – whether apologetic or reprimanding, I was not certain – but I cut him off with a slight wave of my fingers. I reached out to touch his arm consolingly, but my hand was now not only crusted with Auer’s drying blood, but with Garent’s fresh one.
Instead, I repeated more firmly, “It isn’t your fault.”
He shook his head, and I grimaced. ”Saline solution, one of the bags there; I’m going to get an IV in.”
I wiped my grubby hands on my skirt (which wasn’t much better, to be honest, but at least it was dryer) and fiddled with the needle and tube with slippery fingers until I found a vein. Then I reached out, and shook Garent, very gently, by the shoulders. “Garent, talk to me.”
“I don’t think he can hear you, madam,” Lorenzo informed me quietly. “It takes too much effort on his part.”
“He’ll get over it,” I slapped Garent’s face lightly on each cheek. “If he goes into a coma, we lose. Garent! Come on, I need you to focus.”
“Sofia…” his voice was thready and shaky, the tone plaintive. “You’re always slapping me.”
“Too bad,” I said mercilessly, the expression of fierce triumph on my face concealed from him but not from the others. I pulled out my much abused thermal blanket and made to unfold it, a significant effort with a mostly immobilized left and a chest that threatened to burst into flames if I moved too much. Lorenzo helped me. “Talk to me. Tell me a story or something.”
“I don’t want to tell you a story,” Garent gasped petulantly. “I’m dying here.”
“So long as it doesn’t require too much of your attention,” I turned to Victor. “Run outside. Get me some large rocks from a sunny spot.”
Victor darted out, and Lorenzo and I spread the thin foil blanket to its full size. Together, we got Garent tilted up long enough to slide the blanket over his shoulders, and then wrap him in it entirely (leaving the seam of the midsection in easy reach for my perusal). At least, I commented to myself dryly, I didn’t have spinal damage to worry about.
“I can’t feel my hands… or my feet…” Garent maintained his litany in a soft, agitated voice. It was the shock talking, I knew, and being acquainted with Garent, we were already at stage three. ”Sofia! Why can’t I feel my hands? Did you cut them off?”
“It’s the blood loss, dummy,” I told him gently.
“So you got rid of them to save on blood. I get it.”
Victor returned promptly, dashing in, in his usual not-quite-balanced rapid stride, holding several large, pale rocks to his chest that radiated collected heat onto my face and hands even from afar. I pulled the thermal blanket back from Garent’s feet, and divested him of his battered shoes. They were rapidly on their way to turning into ribbons in any case, and I chided myself for buying poor quality. The stones went inside, and the blanket closed over the warmth, conserving it. Not a licensed technique, surely, but I was growing desperate.
I prodded at the wounds again (Garent whimpered, I paid no attention), biting my lip. The one closer to the thigh – I shuddered inwardly, seeing just how close it had cut to the artery – was actually clotting slowly. The bullet itself, and the heat of the impact, served as blocking mechanisms. I was willing to bet, if I were inclined to pull the wound open, that I would notice it blocking capillaries and larger blood vessels as it slammed into the bone. The other wound – wounds, I corrected myself – were a much greater problem; the bullet went into the abdominal wall and sliced through the internal part of the cavity not like a knife through butter, but like a sledgehammer on top of the butter packet.
Lorenzo murmured. “How does it look?” over Garent’s head. I gave his a half a frown and narrowed my eyes, miming a not-insignificant amount of pained anger. His face flickered with dismay, then locked into stone. Garent sighed mournfully, apparently still locked into Lorenzo’s thoughts rather than my own. Rats.
I pulled out a pair of gloves with which I was not planning to bother, and some antiseptic sterile wipes, followed by hardened cotton balls, rolled into tampons, and a small scalpel. Strictly non-regulation, definitely never touched or used. Most likely it was not even there, and everything that follows is a simple figment of your and my imaginations. Luckily for me that it was. Because if it had been real, I would have had to use my left hand.
I gritted my teeth, and pulled the topmost bandage back as far as I dared without losing all benefit of the pressure with my left. My ribs complained loudly, and my left arm decided to go on strike. I ignored them (knowing that my body’s union would demand concessions later) and wished I could afford to simply knock Garent out with some morphine.
Actually, I wished I wouldn’t be performing a maneuver I’d only seen once. In a book.
Garent opened a bleary eye, and pretended to stare at the knife warily. “You don’t have a milk carton instead, do you?”
I swallowed a lump in my throat made of bile and blood and something salty. ”Sorry, milk cartons haven’t been invented yet.”
“I think you… lose your always-prepared badge.” He swallowed, shivering and added very softly. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?”
“You aren’t dead yet,” I said harshly, and lifted my head to catch Lorenzo’s eye. “Hold him.”
I only needed an incision a few millimeters long on each side. The blade in my hand slid in easily, creating a shallow nick hat filled with more blood immediately. It was, admittedly, a foolish sort of desperate measure that gets people killed, but that’s exactly why it’s a desperate measure. I pulled the flaps open cautiously with my left, and probed down gently. Now I could feel the torn tissues as much as see them. Dropping the scalpel, I clamped down on some of the larger, more visible bloodpaths delicately, and jammed a tampon roughly enough to make me wince. Then it was merely a matter of wrapping everything up again, as tightly as I could, and praying a lot. Garent, much to my and Lorenzo’s communal relief, passed out.
“It’s done.” I allowed my left to drop, biting my lips against the shafts of agony. Lorenzo lifted hands that were practically white from Garent’s shoulders. "Don't try this at home, children."
“Whew,” Victor, who was performing a sort of awkward dance between horrified fascination and the wish not to look, dropped the flashlight and stared at my bloodied hands and Garent’s bloodless face alternatively. “Is he gonna be okay now?”
“Are you joking?!” I gulped down on the recurring threads of hysteria, and switched out the empty IV bag with trembling fingers. “It’s a stopgap. It’s practically certifiably insane. If anybody finds out, I’ll get crucified.”
Lorenzo nodded slowly. “We must get to the gem.”
“If I could teleport there,” I said dryly. “I would in a heartbeat. It’s still our only chance.”
“Unfortunately, we have an entire temple to search for it, though we can make some educated guesses as to where it might be.”
“No, we don’t,” I said flatly, envisioning he insane race against time involved in looking through every nook, chamber and cranny of this blasted ziggurat. Including the subterranean levels, the middle floors, and the top. “Victor knows where it is.”
Lorenzo’s eyebrows lifted. “He is proving to be an invaluable asset. Soon I might even remember he is there.”
I snorted, and Victor writhed in discomfort. “But I wanna go help Ros!”
‘You can’t.”
“I can help him fight!” He glowered at me, raising his makeshift – crudimentary, I corrected myself – weapon up as demonstration.
“You can,” I informed him in a tone that I very seldom pulled out of my sleeve, and which brooked no argument, “but you won’t.” Both men looked at me, surprised each for his own different reasons. Victor opened his mouth to protest, and I silenced him with a glare. “What you will do is pick Garent up, and help us find the gem.”
Victor’s spirit was sufficiently undaunted for one more protest. “But Ros—“
“Rostov will be just as better off if we get to the gem, Victor, and you are the only one in any shape to bring Garent along.” I struggled to my feet, demonstrating the point aptly, supported by the wall. Lorenzo, grimacing, accepted my hand to get up after retrieving his cane. Victor leaned down dubiously, and picked Garent up. “And if you so much as jostle him wrong” I added gently, “I will have your ears for breakfast.”
I don’t know why he took a step back.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
((Posting for Diellan due to a corrupt account))
Chapter LXXX
In Which the Lady Fortuna Brings Blessings and Curses in Equal Amounts
Mister Kushan did, indeed, know how to reach the inner chambers of the temple. He had been taken there a handful of times by the late Herr Auer, personally, in order to assist with whatever strange experiments they were conducting there. It appeared that while the Fifth Column knew exactly what was going on in terms of the Gem and the Key, they hadn't a single clue how it worked. Victor was able to discover some of its inner workings, but by that point, we had made our presence felt and Herr Auer was afraid of disabling the anti-magic field.
"The whole chamber is filled with weird stuff," our young companion elucidated in his usual manner of exact, scientific speech. "Statues and pillars and random arches and... god knows what... criss-crossing about in weird patterns. It looked like Escher threw up all over the building plans."
"How... descriptive." I glanced at Madam Rabinovich, who did a good job of hiding what little mirth was able to overcome her worry and her pain. Victor, for his part, seemed incapable of feeling the gravity of any situation.
"But a lot of it looked like the leytap stuff that Ros uses, so I tried to whip together a device to follow the lines of power." A grimace crossed his face. “I didn’t get very far, though.”
I raised an eyebrow. “There is only so much that can be expected of you with such limited materials, Mister Kushan.”
"That’s not it!" He groaned. "I had to cannibalize a stereo speaker and cross-wire some parts from my goggles, and they even had some paper clips and chewing gum for me to use, but nothing."
Madam Rabinovich groaned. Her husband was a card carrying mad scientist, like young Victor, and such things were commonplace in her household. She could tell stories.
“I must have built three different variations,” he continued, “and none of them worked at all. It’s almost like the laws of physics are different here. Less malleable, anyway.”
“Or less mad,” the linguist murmured in thought.
“Mad?” Victor Kushan laughed. “We’re all ma-“
"How well guarded is the room?" I inquired, quickly changing the subject. We were in no mood for his silly antics.
"Plenty. A few out front, a bunch inside; it's more secure than HQ or the lab." He shrugged. "Real tough lookin' guys, too, not like the regular mooks. These ones don't even speak English."
Now it was my turn to groan. They would be the late Auer's handpicked soldiers, then, German or Austrian and significantly more professional than the ones we had managed to ambush or trick our way past so far.
"They're right up here, on the right..." He nodded to the upcoming fork in the hallway. "They know me, though." He brightened. "I've got an idea... Follow me and get your rifle ready."
He rounded the corner, his gun hanging behind his back on a leather strap. He started to say something, but froze. My breath caught, momentarily, as I assumed the worst, but he scratched his head and shrugged. “Huh. Nobody here…”
I followed, looking down the empty hallway to the large stone door at the end. Suspicious of a trap, I turned and walked a few steps down the other junctions of the intersection, listening carefully for any signs of human – or WarWolf – life. Satisfied, I walked with Mister Kushan to the end of the hall.
“Damn… No guards means no key.” Mister Kushan gave the stone barrier a playful – or frustrated – kick. It was an imposing obstacle, as solid as the rest of the blocks that made up the construction of the temple, but significantly more smooth. The late Herr Auer must have had it added recently. My young companion sat Mister Ward on the ground, taking care to lean him against the wall, before drawing a knife from a pouch and addressing the door in a more aggressive fashion. “Just give me a few to pry out these bricks and I can open the door manually.”
“Be my guest.” I took a step back and turned around, contenting myself to standing lookout while the engineering genius went about his work. Perhaps the guards had gone to investigate the shootings above and would not return? Or perhaps they had simply gone for a restroom break, feeling at ease after months of boredom? I dared not hope for the former, and the latter made me worried. Not nearly as worried, admittedly, as the realization that once the Fifth Column found Herr Auer’s body, they would immediately send men down here to intercept us.
“There we go…” I looked back over my shoulder as Victor Kushan pried out a large, irregularly shaped brick and reached his hand into the empty socket. He flexed, twisted his limb, and pulled. “There!” He shouted as the door creaked into motion. “That should- oops.”
“Oops?” Madam Rabinovich and I asked in unison, as I whirled on him. “Why oops?”
He gave a sheepish look and held out an inefficient looking stone gear with some of the teeth missing. “I kind of broke it. We won’t be able to close it aga-“
My head threatened to explode from the sound of sudden gunfire in an enclosed place while the individual stones exploded small shards of rock where the bullets landed. I instinctively span towards the source of the gunfire and dropped to a crouching position and felt a lance of pain shoot through my shoulder. Victor Kushan had a similar idea and side-by-side we returned fire at a pair of 5th Column soldiers who had appeared at the end of the hallway.
One fell, the other turned and ran down the side hallway.
I rose to my feet and gave chase, or at least some passing resemblance to one, as my wounded knee was making it particularly difficult to do any kind of thrilling heroics beyond a hobble. By the time I made it to the intersection, my adversary was gone and I could hear the faint cries of “Alarm!” echoing in the distance. I winced, both from pain and irritation, and returned (though not before putting an extra bullet into the head of the downed 5th Columnist).
“We don’t have very long,” I announced, heroicly hobbling my way down the hall. “He’ll be getting reinforcements.”
“Oh, that’s just-ow!” Victor Kushan tumbled and tried picking himself up off the floor a second time. His leg blossomed with a welt of blood. “Bastards shot me in the leg!”
“We do not have time for another surgery.” I turned to Madam Rabinovich, who had been shielding Mister Ward with her body and was just now rising to her feet. “A field dressing will have to do.”
Her eyes met mine and flickered to my shoulder. “What about you?”
I glanced at an open wound from where a bullet had grazed me, leaving a long gash that bled disproportionately to the gravity of the wound as compared to Misters Kushan and Ward. The adrenaline was doing a good job of blocking the pain, but I knew that would crash any moment, threatening to take me down with it.
“Painkillers and a bandage would be sufficient,” I explained. “It’s just a graze.”
She grudgingly accepted this, though I could tell from her eyes that she wanted to do more to take care of our injuries than time would allow. Again, I changed the subject, and helped Mister Kushan up to his feet – er, foot – and gestured to the now open door.
“Come along, Mister Kushan, I need you to show me everything.”
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter LXXXI
In Which Reinforcements Arrive and Reason Slithers Away
First order of business, I got Victor and Lorenzo bandaged. That proved easy, albeit bandage consuming. The bullet had gone through victor's leg, leaving a small, almost neat hole with no visible fragments or shards. Blood was flowing freely, and he would hurt quite a bit, but, all in all, I was inclined to dismiss the wound as non-lethal with proper treatment and antibiotics. Lorenzo's shoulder had suffered a graze.
I wadded up my remaining bandages, tempted, for a moment, to redo the bandage on my own arm. I reconsidered, dropping the alarmingly small rolls back into my bag; what were some claw marks to what we were likely to take? I was almost out.
Finally, I turned to examine the room.
It was surprisingly large considering the smallness of most spaces in the Akkadian world and – just as atypically – covered with writing; every centimeter and tiny space of wall was covered in the wedges and tent pegs that constituted Sumerian cuneiform. Between the unending columns of writing snaked lines of intricate design, almost impossible to follow. They coiled and uncoiled, creating, in certain spots, optical illusions that made one's head spin. I tried not to look at them too hard. Indeed, as Victor pointed out, the room looked as though Escher – or perhaps Riemann – was permitted to implement his favourite projects in three-dimensional space.
There were also signs of modern – future, I corrected myself – invasion in the room. Crates and casks and boxes were scattered everywhere, scraps of metal and pieces of rubber dotted the floor. The combination was rather jarring, and made the room seem, somehow, juxtaposed between a museum and a poorly tended construction site. Vic darted toward them happily, managing to skip even on one foot.
And it was cold. The chill air rose from the floor and emanated from the walls, permeating to the bone. I imagined that, even in the height of summer, this place would be chilly, buried as it was under tons of rock. I divested myself of my woolen Akkadian poncho and skirt, and remained shivering in my old clothes. They were still the same ones I'd worn in Luxembourg, and they were in an altogether sorry state... but at this point I lacked the energy to care.
I peeked at Garent, peeling the thermal blanket away from his face and peering down. He seemed, after a few checks, to be more or less stable. The IV fluid has run out, but I did not renew it; a small precaution to prevent the exacerbation of blood loss. He was still deeply unconscious. A short time more, and it wouldn’t matter.
Biting my lip against the torture I was inflicting on my ribcage, I dragged Garent inside the room, using the wool as a sort of better camp bed than the thin, thermal blanket could provide. I dropped him to one side of the circular--
“Dodecahedron!” Vic declared vehemently. “I counted!”
--Dodecahedron room, as much in the corner as one could possibly get, and positioned some of the 5th Column's barricades in front of him.
“What are these doing here?”
I pointed at a circle of heavy barricades which surrounded a seemingly innocuous line on the floor like a police cordon signifying 'do not trespass!' In the middle, beyond a second circle, stood a raised altar and, in the middle of it, was the gem of Etnekhsa.
The gem of Etnekhsa was an oversized, unpolished sapphire, which seemed opaque and cloudy. Jewelers would, no doubt, find it defective; it lacked entirely the reflective glow of normal gemstones, instead appearing to swallow the light of the room. Anyone who had seem such things before- and we all have – could recognize the gem as a magical item.
“I have no idea!” Said Victor happily, hopping over on one foot and peering at the cordon. “Heinie didn't say. Betcha it's a trap; you pick up the gem and spikes shoot out of the floor!” He looked excited at the prospect.
“Actually,” Lorenzo said thoughtfully, “a trap would make a great deal of sense, con--”
The corridor gave off a faint, still distant, echo. A sort of tremor which reverberated across the floor. I could tell, more by assistance of deduction than by actually hearing, the sounds of clanking, steel-toed boots, and the sound of weapons being carried.
The pitter-patter of tiny feet.
“Quickly.” I started moving crates and boxes into the doorway, forming a barricade. After a moment, Victor joined me as well. Lorenzo, still staring at the gem of Etnekhsa- in a way that was almost hungry – called to both of us, and pointed to the 5trh Column barricades. I eyed them appreciatively; they were something similar to police barricades, and seemed fairly sturdy, although too thin in order to serve as protection very log. Either way, though, we didn’t need them surrounding the gem – not if we were going to get to the gem – and we did need them by the door.
“Lorenzo, go grab the rifle from the soldier you killed. Victor,” I put my hand onto the stone doors, “come here and help me.”
Together, we pushed the heavy doors as far as they would go. They would no longer close, of course, courtesy of Victor’s amateur lock picking, but they could provide cover from the sides. That left only a rather narrow tunnel in which two people could squeeze with difficulty, and three would not be able to stand at all. A bottleneck.
As soon as Lorenzo hobbled back inside I reached for the rifle he carried. “Both of you, get back to work.” He frowned, but tossed me the rifle underhand. I caught it clumsily. “Give me your cane, too.”
“But who’s gonna shoot the bad guys?” Vic stared at the door unhappily, imagining the potential for mayhem in the corridor, no doubt.
I stripped off the magazines from the other rifles, and laid them out in front of me in a neat line. The footsteps were a roaring crescendo now, turning a corner into our corridor. I put down the smaller pistol that Lorenzo carried last in line, and knelt, facing the corridor. “King Hamlet’s shadow.”
“But—“ And then the place erupted with gunfire.
Believe me when I say this; you need absolutely no skill for such a volley of gunfire, except the ability to pull a trigger, and the desperation born out of a subconscious deathwish. The corridor filled with bullets, and I rapidly lost count of where they hit, and who was shooting. I could not even quite estimate how many soldiers there were. In a situation such as this, my inability to aim was secondary to the simple fact that if they wished to come at us, the 5th Column soldiers needed to bunch up in a small space.
Someone screamed, then someone else fell. A hail of bullets tore into a wooden box next to me, and the box shattered, spilling supplies of scrap metal and nails and bolts. Then a soldier – braver, or perhaps better armoured than the rest – ventured forward. I sent out a neat, almost too lucky burst of three shots in his direction, and he fell, feet, then chest punctured. I ducked below the barricade to reload, tossing the used up magazine away, and peeking behind me to check on Lorenzo and Victor’s progress.
They didn’t appear to be making any significant progress that I could see. Victor was providing Lorenzo with explanations, between bursts of deafening noise, and they were both frowning at the trap. I hurried them mentally. My arms were getting tired… I could no longer feel my wounded left, and I had no idea how long my broken ribcage would oblige me, crouched and leaning forward as I was.
I slapped another magazine in, and opened fire. Then another.
I was shooting in bursts of three, American army style, scorning the full automatic hail of bullets in favour of conservation. Some of my rounds found their marks. Most, sad to say, did not. There was a satisfactory pile of men on the floor, I saw through a crack in the barricade, but two more boxes around me shattered into wooden splinters, and one of the barricades had holes in it now. I was about halfway down my pile of ammunition, and I realized – something which I already knew, intellectually – that this was a doomed endeavour. There was simply too great an inequality; one of me, and too many of them.
I reloaded once more, and stood, leaning on the top of the barricade, pretending I was in a shooting range, alone in the room.
Some soldiers grew wise to the notion of frontal assault, and slowly made their way to shoot at an angle. I realized this when a bullet tore through my hair, ricocheting off the corner, and another blast shredded the stone, sending dust and tiny fragments of rock tumbling down. The barricade which hid Garent from view groaned and bent in. I cried out in distress, torn between the need to continue holding the doorway and dragging Garent out of harm’s way when I found Vic crouching next to me, holding one of the empty rifles and peering out at the oncoming army.
Victor being a significantly better shot than I, I dove out and behind, struggling with Garent’s heavy, inert form.
I took the three seconds necessary to catch my breath before returning to the line of fire in order to examine him again, and felt my face draw in concern. His pulse was thready even before but now, what with the shooting and the noise and the footsteps and the running, I couldn’t feel it at all. For all I knew, he was already dead, and I wouldn’t catch it. Finally, after an agonizing minutes, I could – or thought I could – detect a slight flutter of breath; it could just be wishful thinking on my part, but if so, there was little I could do about it, just at present.
I didn’t want to think of what that meant.
I turned back to the barricade, and saw Victor putting a fistful of lead into a soldier who was leaning over the top of the piled crates, looming and pointing his rifle down. The soldier screamed and tumbled back, not before Victor darted up and snared the rifle out of his hand. A second soldier was angling from the side. I grabbed Lorenzo’s swordstick from the floor, and leapt up, slashing across his hand. The blade found the place below the cuff, and blood started pouring out of the man’s palm. I stood back, ready to thrust again, this time with more lethal intent… The man fell back from the barricade, shouting in surprise. I blinked, confused, before realizing that the ground itself has trembled.
I whirled. Lorenzo, face set in determination, was standing a little ways into the trap circle. The circle itself was slowly lowering, exposing a sunken expanse that surrounded the altar with the gem completely. All about it, the circle was dotted with small, circular holes surrounding its perimeter on the outside as well as on the inside. The round holes led into darkness. Lorenzo stood, one foot raised, looking perplexed.
My body’d caught on long before my brain had an opportunity to react, and my feet, of their own accord, were scrambling back.
I suppose, looking back, that there was a measure of absolute cosmic justice in that moment. Until then, I could pretend to be the unshatterable rock of emotional stability upon which everyone else – deprived of their own customary crutches and confidence – could lean. I was almost to the point of projecting an aura of invincibility. Until then, I could convince myself that I had been brave for everybody else’s sake.
I screamed like a little girl.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter LXXXII
In Which a Little Rubbish Lights the Way and It All Comes Together
When the ground I was walking on shook and started to sink, I froze, readying myself for whatever danger was about to be produced by the ancient trap. Contrary to the expected pitfall or sudden drop, for which I was ready to leap backwards, it merely lowered by a meter and locked into place. The revealed waist-high walls were riddled with black holes. They were larger than the standard dart trap and shaped wrong for arrows, which meant some form of biological or chemical device.
Seeing as how I was in the middle of the Akkadian Empire, and not Egypt or China, that meant only one thing.
I winced as I heard Madam Rabinovich scream in mindless terror, which told me that she had made the same conclusion as I. She is normally a stern, implacable woman, always capable of keeping her calm, but she has one exception that I am aware of: a crippling case of ophidiophobia.
Would I retreat? Hop up the wall behind me before I found myself ankle deep in descendents of mankind's first enemy? I turned around in consideration, and saw that it was, in a sense, too late; a variety of slithering creatures had already started making their out of their imprisonment and into the open space of the room, in search for prey.
I decided that remaining absolutely still would be the best option.
“Sheesh!” I heard Victor Kushan shout, trying to pierce the womanly shrieks. “It's just snakes...”
“SNAKES!” Madam Rabinovich replied eloquently. “Oh, god!”
The snakes must have been conjured magically, since so many of them couldn't have been kept fed in the many months the 5th Column had been here, and they were moving much faster than normal for a usual cautious specie. They had already moved over and around my feet – any move might be my last. Not completely unexpected for the anti-magic field to leave an exception for the defenses of the temple.
I thought quickly, and turned my head very slowly to face Mister Kushan. “Victor? Do you still have your fire powers?”
“Sort of.” He was shouting still, but this time to get over the sound of gunfire; he had already returned to trying to keep the soldiers out. “I can start a fire, a small one, but that's it.”
“That's enough.” I nodded in the direction of a small pile to his left. “Please take one of those broken pieces of wood from the crates, wrap it in the garment that Madam Rabinovich discarded, and set it on fire. The garment, that is.”
“Huh?” He blinked a moment. “Oh, yeah. A torch!” He fired one last round, then quickly moved to follow my instructions, periodically stopping in order to discourage the Fifth Column from taking advantage of the distraction.
He could not reach where I was, and had to simply throw the torch in my direction. Too wary to move, I did not catch it and let it fall at my feet. Luckily, fire is the second most dangerous substance known to Earth's inhabitants – the first, of course, being mankind – and the snakes that been trying to explore my pant legs immediately dispersed.
With my newly acquired weapon, I resumed my course, waving it incessantly about me in a circle. Some of the more adventurous members of the welcoming committee had to literally be hit with the flaming instrument, but I was perfectly happy to oblige. In careful, measured steps, I made my across the snake infested trench, climbed up the opposite side, and found myself face-to-face with the altar.
Like the architecture of the rest of the room, the dais and altar tried to maintain recognizable forms while being composed entirely of components that boggled the mind. A series of black stone pillars came out of the ground and twisted around each other in a complicated, patternless array of stone in order to form the base of the altar. These then split into a large tangle of thin stone cables, forming an intricate display reminiscent of a briar patch. Sitting atop this monstrosity, was the Gem of Etnekhsa.
My free hand wavered over the artifact, as I considered whether or not the gem itself had any traps. I was at a loss, not having my Mage Sight or any of the other magical tricks I would normally have used, and had to go with the mundane test of prodding the altar with the base of the makeshift torch. The altar itself was firm, and even the thin and fragile looking tubes of stone beneath the gem were deceptively strong.
To my thoughts, unbidden, came the images from the various tales of the 19th and 20th centuries, and I couldn't help but wish that I had filled a bag with a gem-sized mass of sand.
“Over here, bastards!”
“Ros!”
I span around at Mister Kushan's shout. He had started to stand up in amazement but was immediately pulled down by Madam Rabinovich, who, while still stealing wary glances at the snakes (who, luckily, seemed unwilling or unable to leave their ditch), had finally rejoined in the fight. Past the pair, in the long hallway leading into this room, I could see our missing companion. He was covered in blood and dirt and carried one of the 5th Column rifles, which he was using to great effectiveness on the soldiers who were now trapped between him and us.
“Your timing is perfect!” I shouted. He was too busy to shout back, but the gleam of his sharklike grin told me he heard.
Emboldened by the appearance of the elder Kushan, I sat the torch down at my feet and turned back to the gem, pulling out the knife I had acquired from Victor for expressly the purpose before I came across. The gem was sealed tightly to the structure beneath it, fused even, but a 21st century blade is more than capable of prying it from free from the setting.
“Aroooooooo!”
I grimaced and looked back over my shoulder as my hands still worked at delivering our salvation. Past the trapped 5th Column soldiers, past the approaching Rostov Kushan, I could make out the hulking shape of the WarWolf, our longtime adversary. Mister Kushan immediately turned to face what he considered the larger threat, only to be knocked flat onto his back as a large chunk of rock collided with his stomach, followed a few seconds later by a pouncing, stone-throwing beast, whose claws flashed in the pale light.
But our friend was quick at the recovery, and caught the creature with his foot and threw it over and behind him. The WarWolf flipped around in the air, a maneuver that seemed quite impossible to me at the time, and landed on all fours, facing Rostov. He charged immediately, giving Rostov Kushan just enough time to get to his feet and dodge out of the way of the massive beast. I saw a swipe of the claws, but it glanced off the rifle.
“Dammit!” Rostov Kushan shouted, as it quickly became apparent that the WarWolf's attack hadn't been much of a glance: the barrel of the gun had been sliced off completely.
I turned back to the Gem as I felt it shift. Just in time, I thought to myself, pleased that I would be returning magic before any casualties had occurred. Even with his cybernetically enhanced body and top level training, Mister Kushan would only be able to last so long against the WarWolf without a gun.
I wedged the knife in between and twisted my wrist, slowly forcing it out. A loud crack split the air, followed by a strange shimmering effect. A small current of electricity connected the Gem to the stone base for a moment, until it, too, was severed.
The Gem came free and fell into my waiting hand.
Global @Diellan - 5M2M
Mids' Hero/Villain Designer Lead
Virtue Server
Redside: Lorenzo Mondavi
Blueside: Alex Rabinovich
Got a Mids suggestion? Want to report a Mids bug?
Chapter LXXXIII
In Which a Price is Paid
It was cold to the touch and hard to hold for any length of time, but I felt nothing more than that. No mana flows, no energy, no surges of power. My Mage Sight still hadn't returned and I still could sense the presence of mana. I waited perhaps it took time? - but I could sense no changes.
Perhaps it needed to be destroyed? Could I even accomplish such a thing? All I had was a fragile board which was slowly burning away and my boots; no good smashing implements to use on a perfect sphere. And even if I did, would I be able to destroy such a powerful artifact?
I looked up from the gem and out towards the battle. The Warwolf had caught one of Rostov's hands in its paw and was squeezing; I couldn't tell if the beast's super strength would be enough to break his cybernetically reinforced bone structure, but it appeared to be trying. Rostov retaliated by stomping it just above the knee cap, forcing a momentary disengagement.
I could.
Victor! I shouted. The young man was distracted trying to line up a shot to aid his older sibling, but the close melee and the interference of the other 5th Columnists kept him from firing. Victor! Victor!
He looked back at me, irritated. What?
Catch! I threw the stone across the room, and he instinctively dropped the rifle and snatched it out of the air.
Now what? He gave the gem a curious look. This was the artifact that caused so much of our problems, and, perhaps, caused the entire journey
Break it! I shouted.
What? And now he gave me a curious look. This was the artifact, after all, and here I wanted him to break it? Was I crazy?
Desperate.
I said, break it!
He sat the orb down on the ground, lifted the rifle, and brought the butt of it crashing down upon it. There was a loud crack and he held up his gun in dismay: the composite plastic of the butt was split down the middle while the gem shone normally, untouched. I expected him to make a quip about manufacturer quality degrading over time, but he was too thrown off by the event.
Anytime would be good, Lorenzo! Rostov Kushan shouted from the hallway. He was making a valiant effort at evading the swipes of the Warwolf, but the strips of bloody cloth that hung from his body betrayed his failures. He had a long combat knife that he used to make his own strikes, but even those that managed to land on his quicker opponent only seemed to anger it, not injure it. The ******* broke my last gun!
Shitshitshit... Victor Kushan swore, willing to risk a glare from Madam Rabinovich not that she was in the mood to give any. The pair were fumbling through the spent magazines that lay upon the ground around them. Victor shook his head. I'll have to grab some from the Fifth...
He rose over the barricade, looking at the scattered bodies strewn across the hallway. All of the soldiers that had been between us and the Warwolf were dead or dying, and the ones on the other side of the melee were unwilling to risk hitting the Warwolf, making ammunition retrieval a viable, but dangerous option. He took a step forward and set his hands on top of the barricade to leap over it.
I saw a flash from one of the or dying soldiers, heard a shot, and saw Victor fall backward, putting his hand to his shoulder.
Madam Rabinovich was immediately at his side, the last of the bandages in her hand.
Madam? I called, trying not to sound too distressed by this turn of events. Signs of worry were not helpful. Is he...?
Not yet, came the strained reply as she went to work. But it's a bad one... Missed the subclavian... I think his lung has been punctured...
Victor Kushan simply moaned.
Vic!? Rostov Kushan looked back over his shoulder, realized his mistake, and ducked back a moment too late. The Warwolf leapt at him, and slammed him against the wall. His knife arm was caught in one of the beast's claws, and at angle where he had no leverage to break free.
I glanced down at the altar, frantically searching for clues as to the mechanism of the magical dampening field. The writings would take far too long to decipher in the heat of battle. Our gamble was failing
Had failed when the removal of the Gem of Etnekhsa did nothing.
The gem was, for our purposes, indestructible, but maybe the base of the altar itself was part of it? As Victor Kushan had said, the room itself seemed to be built in a manner that would harness and amplify magical energies. Furthermore, the gem was only known for climate control... Perhaps the room itself was the source of Anshar's Protection? Or the altar?
What I needed were some grenades.
Madam! Can you give me the grenade in Garent's bag?
Madam Rabinovich, tying off the newly applied bandage, hobbled over the two meters to where Mister Ward was laying against the wall. She sat the offending Gem of Etnekhsa on the ground and began fishing through the bag.
"Great idea, Lorenzo!"
My attention snapped to Rostov Kushan.
He twisted around in the Warwolf's grip, and reached into one of the numerous pouches on his person. His hand move quickly, retrieving and throwing out small black objects in an area around him. They bounced and rolled around the hallway, except for one, which he kept in his hand. The Warwolf panicked, tried to run, but Rostov had wrapped his arms around his waist.
My heart stopped and the bottom fell out of my stomach. No... Had the dream been prophetic? One last bit of magic allowed in a world known for prophets and prophecy? Images flashed through my mind of a war long past, people long dead. I saw Guiseppe Ennio holding the grenade tightly in his hand, pressed against the body of the Warwolf, and the Austrian howled in horror.
Time slowed down, a particularly strange phenomenon contained entirely within the human brain. I realized that I was counting the seconds, the few seconds left of my comrade's life, and I wondered if, perhaps, the slowing of time was some futile act of my will to keep to halt the inevitable. Another soldier dead under my command.
"Ros?" I heard Victor call as if through glass. He had pushed himself up to a sitting position, and peered up over the barricade. His scream of denial was cut off as Madam Rabinovich dove into him, pulling him down to safety.
Rostov turned his head, his eyes holding mine firmly.
"Take care of my brother."
This time I didn't duck. I didn't even flinch. A wave of dust and heat blew out of the hallway, obscuring all vision, except for the circular trench of barbed wire that surrounded me. It made it difficult to breathe, but it didn't matter, I was no longer breathing the air of an ancient Sumerian-***-Akkadian temple; my throat was closed by memories of soot and toxic gas.
The rattling sounds of explosions and crashing stone was punctuated by artillery fire, conjured up from the depths of my mind. And screams. Screams that were cut short if the victim was lucky. The truly unlucky never stopped.
I could hear Victor howling. He had lost a brother today, and might live as a result. A story played out a million times in a million families in mankinds short existence. My mind raced through the images of those who had died so I might live, and I clutched my hand to my throat, trying to grasp a crucifix that hadnt been there for a hundred years.
And yet, in the moment, I found it.
Global @Diellan - 5M2M
Mids' Hero/Villain Designer Lead
Virtue Server
Redside: Lorenzo Mondavi
Blueside: Alex Rabinovich
Got a Mids suggestion? Want to report a Mids bug?
((Still on a weekly schedule, the box invasion continues.We shall resume more frequent posts once the armies of boxes have been defeated.
-The Authors))
Chapter LXII
In Which Alcohol Leads to Nothing Conducive, and Amounts to Notions of Necessary Haste
“I beg your pardon, madam?”
Everybody was peering at me from around the fire. Reactions differed; Garent was confused, Rostov smirking, Lorenzo bemused. Though, in his face, the bemusement slowly was replaced by enlightenment.
“Your coat pockets contain all sort of useless items these days,” I added helpfully. “But only one thing which might be of real use.”
“I don’t see…” Lorenzo frowned. “That is, I see what you are aiming at, but I don’t see how it is relevant.”
“Neither do I,” I admitted rapidly, inscribing a thoughtful semi-circle in the dirt with my thumb. “But the point of the matter is that I don’t know it’s not, either. We never looked. It seems to me that if we were to try and find something inside the temple of Anshar – like a passage entrance – writings from within the temple of Anshar would be a good place to begin.”
“You think they hung a map of the temple on the wall?” Rostov inquired ironically between small sips, “with a big arrow saying ‘you are here’ in cuneiform?”
"And it just so happened to be in that pile?" Lorenzo added with thinly veiled skepticism.
“I think there might be anything there,” I told reasonably, to the no less reasonably inebriated men. “Inscriptions detailing the means to return to the present. An explanation of this absence of magic. Maybe even a recipe for better carp.”
Garent, face contorted into a grimace of distaste, put down my cup, which he had by accident swapped with his – just a fraction out of his current reach, I noted and shifted it closer – added wistfully, “Or better beer.”
“I’ll get it,” I said abruptly, and rose before Lorenzo could get up and strain his knee, or Rostov could fall face first into the fire. No that he looked drunk .it was not nearly far enough along into the night yet. I wondered for a moment whether he remembered that, at this time, he should be wary f drinking the copious amounts of alcohol which affected him not at all in the present.
“And get that whisky bottle, while you’re there!” Rostov shouted behind my back.
I sought the packet of folded papers in the deep outer pocket of Lorenzo’s trenchcoat, rummaging in the dark by touch. Finally, my hands encountered the carefully folded papers. Considering for how long, and how thoroughly, we all forgot about them, it was a wonder they survived and didn’t get thrown out during a tumble, or splashed on by water, or destroyed in any other way. The packet was thick, sturdy and hefty, and I was very curious about its contents.
I considered the whisky. It would have been almost too convenient to refuse Rostov. I have the reputation of a prude, and, in many ways, I live up to it without regrets…
I grimaced and tucked the bottle under an arm.
Prudishness aside, alcohol was some people’s reprieve and, though I’ve never seen Rostov drunk, I certainly saw him drink. If the drink was what took his mind off of foolish notions, or helped him pass the night, well, who was I to stop him? I wasn’t anyone’s mother – not even Garent’s – no matter how often I had to remind myself of that little fact – and I was not anybody’s conscience, either.
I returned to the fire, holding the papers in one hand, and the bottle in the other. The bottle I handed straight to Rostov. Lorenzo held out his hand for the papers and I handed these over as well, with some reluctance. Admittedly, though, my curiousity would be satisfied in due time and I couldn’t read cuneiform. He ruffled through the papers thoughtfully. “And what would you suggest we look for, madam?”
“Anything at all that seems like a plan.”
The sides of his mouth quirked in an odd little smile. "Excuse me while I try and remember the Akkadian for 'step one'."
I settled down again with my knees drawn up against my chest and my face away from the fire. After a few seconds of awkward shuffling, I drew Garent around until his back rested on my knees, and my hand was on his shoulder, allowing him to listen in conveniently. On the whole, I avoid physical contact, but under the circumstances I found the small touch comfortable – even comforting. Comfort was that much harder to come by in the slowly descending silence, with the night growing deeper and deeper around us and the sounds of animals in the distance. I felt very small.
I didn’t know how the others felt. Garent was mostly thoughtful; Lorenzo was occupied with the deciphering of faint rubbings, squinting in the dim glow. Rostov drank steadily.
He poured his first glass without even thinking, and simply inhaled it in one breath. He drank, I thought privately but refrained from commenting even to Garent, like a desperate man. The second time around he was more inclined to share.
“Anyone else want one?”
Garent and I both shook our heads for a pass. I was already feeling slightly lightheaded, and just a touch giddy. Not in the airy, pleasant way that comes with a good mood, but with a sort of hollow heaviness, as though a large, iron sphere in my mind was filled with helium, and leaking - a giddiness that would lead to hysteria and tears, more than laughter. It was a good place to stop.
“I hope you’re not going to do something silly after drinking all this stuff,” Garent observed, voicing, for who knows what time, the thoughts we were too reticent to say out loud. “Run off and try to blow the city up, or something.”
“Nah,” Rostov reached for the bottle again. “That’s stupid. The two things that you definitely can’t be when going on a military op are angry, and sad. And I’m both right now.”
“Heh,” said Garent, a touch uncomfortably.
“Actually, the third thing you’re not supposed to be is drunk. But I can’t get drunk. And anyway, I’ve not nearly drunk enough yet.” Rostov raised his cup, staring at it thoughtfully as if he were about to find answers to the eternal questions of the universe in them, “Bottoms up.”
From the other end of the fire, Lorenzo raised his half-empty cup in a silent salute.
He had been staring at the papers in his hands for a while unobtrusively, and occasionally frowning, but in all the elapsed time had not joined into the conversation, looking up only occasionally to reach for food or sip from what Rostov gulped.
“Anything interesting in there?” I inquired, jerking my chin slightly at the papers.
“Nothing… conducive.” In the dictionary I’ve compiled for Mr. Mondavi, this read something like: ‘nothing that I care to comment about either due to overabundance of people or due to my inability to pretend to know everything’. I had to stop myself from commenting on that, which meant I was probably more affected by the drink than I cared to admit, even to myself.
“Too bad. The more we know, the faster we act. And in our case, the faster the better.”
“Is it?” Lorenzo looked up from the papers, and slowly finished off his glass. “It seems to me that time and guerilla warfare is on our side. Auer and his people are, perforce, spread thin. We’ve eliminated, what. Eight so far?”
“Sh—Seven.” Rostov slurred. I blinked at him and quirked my mouth.
“Seven, then. Surely he would run out of people before all is said and done.”
“And we’ll run out of Victor, hehe.” Rostov toasted an invisible foe with a perfunctory sort of salute, somewhere in the vicinity of his nose.
“I think we’d better take that bottle away from him,” Garent grinned, deciphering the slurring and the slightly glazed look from my mental commentary which I, for once, chose not to block.
“Wha’ bottle?” Rostov’s hand patted the ground by his side, and there was the clinking of vacant glass.
“That bottle,” I said dryly. “Are you drunk enough now?”
“Nuh uh… The drunk keeps me from getting demoned. I mean…” Rostov stopped, and frowned in oddly intense concentration. “The demon keeps me from getting drunk. Kept me...?" He stared at the glass for a few moments as the reality of the situation sunk in. I don't know what he expected; he wouldn't make his Faustian deal for another five millennia, so it wouldn't be watching him now, and whatever curse it put on him was probably blocked with everything else.
"I mean… we gotta hostage situation, right? So we don’t jus’ siddown and wait for th’basterds to kill the hostage… We go and…liberate… a couple more bottles of thi’stuff. Damn, this feels good,” he said, almost clearly, the drunken slur subsumed under a momentary exertion of customary, almost second nature control. Then he closed his eyes and lay back, basking in the fire and the sensation of alcohol-induced release. "Been years."
For the second time that night, there was an atypical, oppressive silence. I stared at the fire, thinking.
Rostov was right, of course; the only way to deal with a hostage situation was rapidly, and decisively, but he was not nailing the most frightening possibilities and the most profound imperatives why we should move fast. Rostov, no matter his cautious nature, was not a normal man living in a normal world. He didn’t fear the things that haunted the life of every normal person, day and night. He didn’t fear the little accidents that end in disaster, and the random incidents that culminate in profound loss.
I realized, at that moment, that the way we behaved, evrythign that happened, was because of a very simple reason; I was not braver than anyone, nor more determined, nor more prepared. I simply lived with the fears of normalcy like a fish lives with water. I was afraid of broken bones, and snakebites, and a bullet that went just that little bit too close. I was terrified of dysentery and plague and rabid bites and mutated influenza and smallpox. Every day we spent here increased our risk for something – not even the Fifth, but some accident of fate, one of the many hazards of the past – could just as easily end it all for us.
“Is he asleep?” Garent blinked his eyes several times in confusion. “Sofia? Sofia?”
“Hm? Sorry,” I shook myself out of some almost preternatural stupour a combination of lassitude and depression which was almost chemically paralyzing. “Perhaps he is. Perhaps he’s just pretending. Don’t disturb him, either way. In fact, we should all follow his good example.”
“We should.” Garent concealed a yawn with the back of his hand. “I’m pretty tired. And we have a long day tomorrow, though I’m sort of surprised that you were also in favour of hurrying up. Is it because of Vic?”
I smiled grimly. “I can think of worse reasons than Vic.”
“Like what?”
“Nothing conducive.” I lurched to my feet, feeling the pins and needles, and held out a hand to him. “Come on. Let’s think of rest.”
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse