NOVEL NEXT Chapter 85: Barracks Run II
The red star Corydon was streaming its phantom light into Saltilla, staring balefully at the destruction and death that had been wrought by almost two weeks of raging internecine violence.
To the people of the Sylvan Protectorate, Corydon symbolized many things: the cruelty of the hellfire afterworld Azda, the capriciousness of the Devil, and the evil nature of the planet itself.
For nearly a millennium, the denizens of Desert had battled against this world, exploited it, but never truly adapted to it.
Today, seeing Corydon with the naked eye meant that there was no more barrier between the toxic, carbon monoxide-rich atmosphere of Desert and the inside of Saltilla.
"Holy fuck…" Douglas exclaimed, still trying to regain his breath. "Something took a bite out of it."
Betelgeuse narrowed his eyes.
How long had it been? It could take days for Desert's toxic atmosphere to diffuse throughout Saltilla.
No good trying to speculate—we wouldn't know, because we've been stuck in the Nook. Carbon monoxide is colorless and odorless. To be safe—
"Ho!" someone called from opposite the Vehicle Park. Douglas raised his carbine reflexively, but Betelgeuse placed a hand on its muzzle and pushed it down wordlessly.
It was only one person. He would be able to use the compulsion matrix if any issue arose.
The man ran across the street at a breakneck pace, making towards them without any of the superhuman quickness Betelgeuse had observed in Whites or Hollows.
Most likely, this was an Ash grade. A TAF-Ash from Earth, given his height and proportions.
Betelgeuse could see that the man was carrying a large duffel-bag that was overstuffed with things. He wore a gas mask with a long tube that snaked into the bag.
The rest of his body was outfitted in the same blimpy exosuit that Betelgeuse was familiar with. The exosuit was of the same kind that he had used during the Battle of Liberation's Reach, though this man was using a gas mask in place of the unwieldy exosuit helmet.
"You have an extra mask?" Betelgeuse asked as the man came closer.
"No man, fuck no!" the man hollered back, halting his step several meters from the Vehicle Park. "Go get your own, man! I thought you managed to find some shit downstairs. I'm going!"
Betelgeuse frowned.
The man was acting weird; in fact he had already turned to run away in the opposite direction.
Betelgeuse raised his hand, activating his intentionalities and sending it across the distance to grasp at the man's form.
"Halt! Get over here!" Betelgeuse commanded.
Two Incunabula pulsed within his vest. He felt the man's will crumple under the force of his compulsion.
Two Incunabula instead of one definitely increases the effectiveness of my compulsion, Betelgeuse thought. He barely put up a fight.
Betelgeuse felt the tendrils of his intentionality encapsulate and turn the man's body back around. Betelgeuse knew for sure this was an Ash grade, from the contours of the man's mind.
The TAF soldier walked back toward the low concrete wall. The eyes peering out from beneath his gas mask were glazed and bloodshot.
Douglas whistled at how smoothly Betelgeuse had usurped the man's mind.
"How long since the breach?" Betelgeuse asked, pointing at Saltilla's damaged ceiling. "Speak!"
"About a day, man. You guys can't be fucking staying here. We gotta go!" the man urged.
"Name, rank," Betelgeuse snapped. "Explain what you are doing here."
"Private Olin Prince. I'm doing the same goddamn thing as you guys, kay?" Olin groused, shifting from foot to foot. He obviously considered the area very dangerous. Everything about his body language screamed anxiety.
But Betelgeuse' compulsion kept him in place.
"What did you think we were doing here?" Betelgeuse asked.
"Y'all fuckin' AWOL looters, yeah? Lootin' the bunkblocks, yeah? That's why you ain't on the walls," Olin jabbered, indicating to their left where Barracks Blocks 49 and 50 stood. "I'm just getting whatever I can get my hands on... before the fucks from command line send the officers to roll call for the muster orders. By then I'm gone."
Hearing this, Betelgeuse started. Muster orders were only promulgated during large scale operations. Did this mean that the Allied Forces were ready to snuff out the Mandalazief once and for all?
But Olin continued, saying: "... I hear they'll muster by zero-five-hundred hours, move out of Saltilla by zero-five-one-five so you guys better find your transport before then. I'm going, man, I'm going."
Olin turned and took a step.
Betelgeuse shot the man's mind through with the full force of his intentionality, and Olin shuddered, before turning back around.
"... Out of Saltilla? Explain properly. Who is the enemy? What are the objectives of the muster orders?"
"Fuck!" Olin yelled, meeting Betelgeuse' emotionless gaze, his eyelids fluttering as though he didn't understand why he was wasting time talking to two clueless idiots.
"It's the damn Chimerae! They bombed the shit out of the ceiling yesterday, can't you see? They're taking advantage of whatever the fuck is happening in this godforsaken city, man…"
Betelgeuse and Douglas shared a glance. General Strike, all-out civil war—and now, the Chimerae were attacking. Everything was happening at once.
Time was running out for Saltilla.
"Command line called up all the guys this side of Saltilla to garrison the walls against the slippery alien shits—"
"Enough. Come with us, Olin," Betelgeuse said, interrupting Olin's fervid jabbers and bounding over the low concrete wall. Saltilla's ceiling-lights flickered dark and bright, and a rumbling noise started and then receded in the distance.
"W-what! Where—"
"No questions. Follow," Betelgeuse said, sprinting down in the direction of Barracks Block 50 with Douglas and Olin hot on his heels.
"Entuban, do you read?" Betelgeuse spoke into his transceiver.
Silence. Betelgeuse raced up the stairwell of Block 50, finding the entire building deserted. As Olin said, every single soldier that could be spared was probably on the Saltillan walls by now.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
"—Sakar! I hear you. Location? Douglas with you?"
"Listen to me closely, Entuban," Betelgeuse said, ignoring Entuban's questions. "The Chimerae are attacking Saltilla as we speak. No one's going to bother you downstairs, so fill up the APC as much as you can, then take it up to Level 1 once you're done."
"Chimes. Okay. I am listening," Entuban breathed. Betelgeuse could tell the giant was shocked, though he did an admirable job keeping himself in check.
"I don't want to risk the Underground tunnels because of the Chimerae's Earthborers. We don't know the scale of this assault, and I'm not taking any chances. I'll meet you at the Level 1 Exit to the Vehicle Park," Betelgeuse said.
He bounded up the last flight of stairs, finally coming to the entrance to the 67th Penal Legion's bunkroom.
"And I need you to inform Tenzhian as well," Betelgeuse said, "tell him to talk to Kanogg and get the holo-craft ready—we leave immediately once we're back."
"Roger, roger," Entuban sounded, before cutting the line.
Douglas was already in the bunk and rifling through his things, picking small bits of paraphernalia and even sticking his toothbrush into his vest.
Betelgeuse left Olin standing by the doorway as he came to his bed and looked underneath it.
There, his lockbox. Most likely the TAF couldn't spare the manpower to ransack the place after they went AWOL.
Betelgeuse retrieved the lockbox and smashed it open upon the ground.
His fingers found the paper upon which he'd transcribed Chrysilla's letter whichhe stuffed into his vest-pocket. Then he came to Frederica's Incunabulum, and his fingers froze atop its ashen cover.
Yes, it's what you need. More of it. It doesn't matter what grade it is. The more, the merrier.
It shouldn't matter if you graft it. It's a calculated risk.
Just excise the problematic portions. Excise them and graft it. It will increase your power over the compulsion, raise it to even greater heights—
"Ballsman, we gotta go," Douglas said, placing his prosthetic hand upon Betelgeuse' shoulder and squeezing, jolting Betelgeuse from yet another one of his bouts of spaciness.
Shaking away the cobwebs in his mind, Betelgeuse seized Frederica's Incunabulum and stuffed it into his vest, making three total Incunabula in his chest-pouch.
This made the vest pouch quite tight and uncomfortable, but he didn't have any alternative.
"Olin!" Betelgeuse called, regaining his feet.
"Yeah! We gonna go or what!?" Olin groused, turning to face into the bunkroom.
"Exosuits. We need exosuits. You must know where they are. Bring us to them now."
[20 minutes later, Saltillan Barracks Commissary]
"—Sakar, we're at the Exit, where the hell are you guys," Entuban's voice rumbled through the transceiver. "I see the kakking hole in the ceiling—it's widening. We have to be going, now!"
"Drive further down. The Commissary should be up ahead," Betelgeuse said, rifling through the metal cabinet to pick out exosuits which had 100% or close-to-100% oxygen capacity and extracting as many of them as he could find. "The exosuit-store is just behind it. We must take some with us."
"Sakar, there's not going to be any space—"
"There will," Betelgeuse said, interrupting Entuban with a brusque tone. "We're not going to have another opportunity, and I rather we're not caught flat-footed. Now stop arguing and bring the APC over."
Several seconds of silence passed, before Entuban responded "roger, roger. We'll leave a little room," and then cut the connection more snappily than normal.
"Man's panicking, ya think?" Douglas remarked, taking out handfuls of folded exosuits and stuffing them unceremoniously into a crate with the help of Olin.
Betelgeuse didn't bother replying. He took out three exosuits and threw them into the crate, then straightened his back and scanned the white-lighted room.
The exosuit-store was a large and rectangular space that was about twice the square-footage of their Block 50 bunkroom. The short ends of it were lined with locked metal cabinets within which were stored exosuit of various sizes.
Left of Betelgeuse—at the opposite end from which they had entered the exosuit-store—was a metal door upon which was affixed a copper plate embossed with the following words: 'OFFICERS ONLY - STOREMASTER AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED'
"What's in there, Olin?" Betelgeuse asked.
"Huh?" Olin said, snapping his head around and squinting. "The fuck would I know? I'm no occifer."
Pursing his lips, Betelgeuse rushed at the door and smashed it open with a powerful kick. The door dented inward and crashed into the opposite wall with a loud reverberation.
"Jeez… show-off," Betelgeuse heard Douglas mutter loudly from behind.
The automatic sensors triggered the light-switch, and the room blinked bright. Betelgeuse' eyes narrowed.
Before him was a row of hangers dangling on a dull aluminum pole. Only one of it still held something—a pitch-black fullbody suit that appeared to be reinforced with hard plating.
Betelgeuse claimed the suit and eyed it over.
The suit was vastly different from the blimpy and bulky exosuits that were for the common soldiers. It was form-fitting and plated over with thin sheets of blacksteel around the chest, arms and legs. The helmet was sleek, curved, and tactical, and its visor was an opaque obsidian-black.
A printout that had been taped to the wall on his left caught his attention.
It read:
Multipurpose Desert Exploration Suit (MDES)-skote - Protectorate Defence Force personnel ranked Lieutenant Colonel (LTC) and above please obtain authorization from your BRIGADE STOREMASTER before drawing your MDES and indicate below the MDES Type you have drawn.
Physical printout huh. Gotta respect that.
Betelgeuse ran his eyes down the list, finding that 29 out of 30 suits had been indicated as drawn.
He held the only one left: an MDES Mark X. The Protectorate symbol—a tree denuded of leaves—was threaded into its shoulder. This was the rank insignia of a PDF Lieutenant Colonel.
Scanning the information blurb, he noted that the Mark X suit was reinforced with a steel-laced silk and carbon-fiber blend that could protect a wearer from 7.62mm rounds and long-distance railgun fire. Skipping most of the turgid technical details, Betelgeuse noted that the Mark X came 'pre-installed' with an oxygen tank and transceiver-interface.
"That's a cool looking suit all right," Douglas remarked, coming behind Betelgeuse.
Betelgeuse turned to see that Douglas had already pulled on an exosuit (save for the helmet), and that, like Olin, he had fitted an oxygen mask over his face. Save for the fact that Douglas' prosthetic-arm appeared a little bunched under the exosuit's sleeve, it fit well.
"Better get into it quickly, man, we gotta run," Olin pressed anxiously from behind Douglas, even as he frantically filled up the crate with exosuits and oxygen canisters.
"Yeah, no time to waste," Douglas said. "I'll pull the crate out while you get changed. Meet outside."
'Well, don't mind if I do,' Betelgeuse thought, losing his ceramic helmet and removing his vest before turning the suit around to wrangle it over his head.
Entuban couldn't help yelling out in surprise when the suited figure strode out the exosuit-store in the field uniform of a PDF Lieutenant Colonel.
He raised his weapon and was just about to pump Betelgeuse full of lead when Douglas yelled out loudly and raised his hands.
"Don't! It's Betelgeuse!" Douglas hollered.
Betelgeuse raised a hand in a sarcastic salute that bounced off of his black visor. The MDES Mark X possessed some minor muscular augmentation which, combined with Betelgeuse' recent White-grade graft, made it difficult for him to calibrate the force of his movements.
As it was, Betelgeuse had pulled the MDES Mark X on over his uniform, then equipped his vest over the suit for extra protection. He felt like a walking tank, and yet his movements bore none of the signs of being overburdened.
He supposed he had to thank the White Incunabulum for that.
As for vision—the visor of the MDES helmet had been specifically designed to allow for a wide and untinted field of perception. Betelgeuse hadn't had the time to pore through the technical specifications pasted on the wall of the MDES-skote, but he supposed he would have the time to learn the ins-and-outs of the MDES later.
Importantly, the MDES allowed him the choice to communicate without the mediation of a comms, unlike the helmets of the restrictive fullbody exosuits.
Entuban lowered his carbine and narrowed his eyes. The giant's massive body filled the entire back-entrance to the APC, and blue jerry cans peeked out to either side of his overbroad head.
"Entuban!" Thete called from somewhere behind him, "we've cleared some space here! Hurry up with the exosuits!"
It was going to be a tight fit.
Raising a thick finger, Entuban indicated Olin with uncharacteristic irritation: "Sakar! What in the hells are you be doing? We have no more space and you bring another… What of the other target we are extracting from the Detention Barracks?"
"He's not joining us," Betelgeuse said indifferently, striding past Olin and Douglas and indicating the crate on the ground. "Shift this in quickly. We gotta be moving."
Grumbling to themselves, Olin and Douglas got to work pushing the heavy faux-wood crate up the slant of the APC's hull-door and between Entuban's legs.
"Sakar, what you mean? This man is not your fri—"
A profusion of sound was raised with striking suddenness, interrupting Entuban.
Betelgeuse snapped around on his heels, raising his helmeted head to witness, on the Saltillan horizon—
The Saltillan Obelisks crumbling into jagged and massy chunks, falling into smog and bitter gouts of flame that flared and were snuffed out in seconds.
If there were any question before, it was now clear beyond all doubt that an alien force was besieging Saltilla from the outside.
Patches of ceiling were starting to droop from being struck by superheated bolts of plasma. The protective crust of Saltilla bunched into voluminous molten gobbets that fell away to the ground, revealing more of the blood-red sky.
Now that the whole structure was weakened, large chunks of rubble began to break off from the Saltillan ceiling, the chunks falling dreamlike as if in the final, cruel revelation of Samsara*; and outside the crush of human imaginings, the hellstar looked on impassively, pitilessly, indifferently.
*[Buddhistic concept of illusory life, as opposed to Nirvana.]