Ascendance, p.7
Ascendance, page 7
“Oh, hello! Hello there!” an unknown voice exclaimed from nearby.
The sound and proximity were enough to cause Mitchell to jump, and he was far from the only one startled, even the Dragoon shifting as he comprehended a threat emerging so close to them.
How the owner of the voice had drawn so close to them undetected was unknown, yet there he was, barely three meters away, the moonlight silhouetting him against the trees. Age and toil had contorted his body into a slight hunch, but even with that, it was easy to see he was a tall man, most of his body concealed beneath the ragged cloak he wore. There was a friendly glimmer in his milky green eyes, almost as though the sight of the corporate team had reinvigorated some joy in his aged heart.
With a flamboyant bow, the elderly intruder offered an animal carcass.
“Would any of you fine souls care for some supper?”
The theatrical nature of his movements prompted most of the SRU to chuckle and Mitchell noticed a young girl clinging to the folds of the stranger’s cloak, her age and physical state akin to the other child they’d spotted. The harrowed expression on her face was enough for him to ponder how much she’d been made to suffer in her young life.
Perkins waved dismissively at the man. “We’re all good here, old fella. Why don’t you and your brood move along.”
“A pity! Meals are such rewarding ventures when shared with entertaining friends.”
Clucking his tongue, the newcomer turned back toward the trees, his wards silently following his lead. Mitchell watched them go, wondering if perhaps he should have offered the children a ration bar at least. It was a fair bet the calories in one bar was more than they’d ingested in days.
“Wait,” the Dragoon demanded and everyone, including the Dye-Tech employees, froze as they complied without question.
Mitchell could see the smile on the old man’s face as his hood swiveled to look back at the demigod.
“I see you be changing your mind. Wise choice, Your Lordship. I promise this will be the tastiest hound you’ve ever sank your teeth into.”
The Dragoon took an intimidating step toward the stranger. “I have no interest in your rubbish. What I desire is information.”
“Information? Why didn’t you just say so? There be no other bloke who hears the whispers the way that I do. Far and wide, this is known, Your Lordship.”
“Good. Then you agree to answer my questions?”
The elderly gentleman tutted in a manner far too similar to Mitchell’s grandmother.
“In a wee moment. Vargar never discusses business on an empty stomach.”
With an audible sigh, the Dragoon lowered their rifle. “And I’m assuming Vargar is you?”
“Precisely.”
The process of getting their new acquaintance fed was a far more complicated experience than Mitchell was expecting, especially with a Dragoon overseeing it all. Every time it seemed they had satisfied this Vargar character, he would make a small additional request, basking in the pleasure of making a demigod wait on him. However, everything has its end and after the old man requested someone warm his boots over the fire, the Dragoon angrily hurled the footwear into the forest.
“Enough! It’s time for you to be of use!”
Far too cavalier for someone facing down an angry super-soldier, the old man dismissed the children, presumably to go fetch his shoes, and leaned back against the log serving as his seat.
“Very well. What you be liking to know, Your Lordship?”
Firelight dancing in the Dragoon’s visor, the demigod towered over Vargar. “We’re hunting someone. Someone augmented and likely southern born. This person has been operating around Grantham. Any of this sounding familiar to you?”
“I might’ve made a mistake, Your Lordship,” the elderly gentleman replied with slow purpose, a look of worry crossing his wrinkled face.
“Explain yourself.”
“Begging your pardon. I didn’t know you be hunting…them.”
The way he said it made Mitchell’s skin crawl, and he glanced out at the darkened trees as though he could feel an unseen menace watching him.
“Them?”
Vargar nodded. “Yes, them.”
“How about we stop playing the goddamn pronoun game and you tell us exactly who you’re talking about, okay?” Perkins warned.
Silently the old man looked between the SRU and the Dragoon as if trying to decide if he could share whatever information he claimed to have. With a quick look in the direction the Dragoon had thrown his boots, he drew in a calming breath and spoke.
“People speak of a coven of witches that dwell in the hills. Brutal demonesses who feed upon death and pain. I be thinking it’s just stories, no. Tales to keep the wee ones from wandering off or not eating their veggies. That was, until I seen the mill.”
Frightened as he was, Mitchell couldn’t help but be entranced. “The mill?”
“That’s what I said, boyo. The mill. A place people have avoided for years. Haunted, they always said it was.”
“What does this mill have to do with anything?” the Dragoon snapped, clearly losing their patience.
Vargar squinted up at the super-soldier as if trying to decide if his life was in danger or not. Somehow satisfied with whatever his brain decided, he turned back to the gathered listeners.
“A week’s time ago, I made camp by this mill. Used its walls as an easy windbreak. Wasn’t about to step inside, you know? Not that crazy. Anywho, I’m enjoying my night when I hear voices coming from in the mill. Voices that just could not be human. That was when ole Vargar became a believer. Whatever dwells in that mill is evil, I tells you.”
Slowly, the human officers glanced between each other, most overlooking Mitchell as they regarded their usual colleagues.
The logical part of Mitchell’s mind told him such a story was nothing but superstitious nonsense. Fearful ramblings of people who lived in a world well behind the times. The counterpoint was that he’d seen their quarry butcher their way through an entire detachment of corporate troopers, and often enough, there was some kernel of truth in local delusions. An element of reality that someone couldn’t understand, so they morphed it into something supernatural. How else would these hicks interpret a cybernetically enhanced killer than by viewing it as a paranormal entity?
Unfazed by the story, the Dragoon spoke up first: “Where is this mill?”
“Not too far, Your Lordship. I’d say about a two-day yomp west of here. Rough country it is, but nothing you lot can’t manage. I mean, after all, look at you!”
“Guide us there, and I’ll make sure you’re well compensated.”
With a grimace, the old man shook his head. “That be a good sounding deal, Your Lordship, but ole Vargar will regrettably have to refuse. See, he has an appointment he can’t be missing. I’ll point you in the right way and then rest is down to you. But when you sees it, you’ll know. There be no mistaking that place for anything homely.”
A brief flash of pain in his skull caused Mitchell to flinch and then he was aware of the Dragoon’s voice speaking inside his head as the super-soldier’s com-link connected to the team’s wetware. It might have felt like an invasion of privacy if the zaibatsu hadn’t made it clear he had none, save for what they deemed fit to give him.
“Trap or not, this is the only lead we have so far,” the demigod proclaimed, though there was no noise in the outside world other than the chirp of insects and the crackling of firewood.
Perkins chimed in next, the officer managing to speak to the group without her lips moving.
“Think this bastard is in cahoots with our target?”
“I’m willing to bet everyone up here is. But we still have a job to do.”
Back and forth the team went, discussing using Vargar as a human shield to gain access to this mill or putting him in the ground here and now. Through it all, Mitchell listened in fascination as everyone mentally debated without a word being spoken aloud.
He’d read about this kind of thought-speech but never imagined he’d be lucky enough to be part of it, the technology reserved for employees of consequence. Determined to take part, he tried to think of a sentence to say, however, try as he might, nothing inserted itself into the conversation and the more he pondered it, the more he was worried the SRU could read his private thoughts.
“It’s settled then,” the Dragoon said, though Mitchell had lost track of the discussion to know what they’d agreed upon. Whatever it was, he assumed it would see him crossing mountainous terrain to enter the warren of devils. None of which sounded appealing to him.
“Wait!” Mitchell hurriedly exclaimed, the sound of his voice breaking the stillness that had occupied the campsite for the past few minutes. Each of the SRU glowered at him and Vargar sat there dumbfounded, lost to all that had just transpired.
The Dragoon rose to his feet, a looming deity supervising his mortal charges. It was clear there would be no more deliberation, the super-soldier having made his decree. The only sane choice now was for Mitchell to force a smile and nod.
“We move at first light.”
A pleasant breeze stirred the folds of the kufiyah wrapped around his helmet as Kirkland gazed out over the cab of the truck into the seemingly never-ending sea of rocks and conifers.
The trek out to this haunted mill had become exceptionally bumpy as the landscape turned alpine, the road the drifter Vargar had directed to them deteriorating into little more than a glorified shepherd’s trail. Straps and brackets affixing equipment had to be double-checked and twice already Mitchell had almost been crushed when one of the drones had slid in the bed of the other truck. Not that it would have been a terrible loss.
There was little doubt in Kirkland’s mind that this mill, or at least this road, was a trap. Vargar had been far too accommodating after all the resistance they had received in Grantham. Perhaps his quarry used the old loon as a scout, who feeds them target information for laying a better ambush. Then again, there was always the slim chance that Vargar had no connection to their prey.
That smidgeon of possibility had kept Kirkland from interrogating the elderly vagabond, even though it seemed the easier choice. Ruiz would have done it. Hell, she would have broken the man’s every finger till she was satisfied she had gotten every drop of intel out of him.
It was their birthright to treat humans however they saw fit, and a wise human would thank them for the attention. They were Dragoons after all, and their Clan had bled itself for generations, securing both peace and its place of dominance. Other, weaker, Dragoons tried their own manner of rule, but time after time crumbled when facing the overwhelming might of the Alpha Clan. This was how the world should turn.
Even with this assurance of his superiority, Kirkland could not silence the disquiet in his heart. It gnawed at him like a cancer, filling his mind’s eye with images of the atrocities committed in Shah, all in the name of his Clan and none ever resolving anything. He’d won no glory there, only a lifetime supply of nightmares and misdeeds. It left a gaping hole in his soul. One he had spent far too much time filling with rage.
Initially, the rage had fueled him for months, a comforting fire that kept guilt and disappointment at bay. It had been his nourishment throughout Recon training, driving him to excel at whatever new exercises the instructors threw at him. The fury had been so satisfying that he assumed it was all he would need. Then he had been transferred to Crow Squad and back into the presence of Talia.
While time and experience may have blunted her positivity, she had remained devoted to being the conscience of the squad and worked to uplift her comrades. At first Kirkland had believed this was going to be the new beginning he craved and one which would see him serving alongside his truest friend. Each day the rage quieted ever so slightly but, in its place, came all those emotions it had kept at bay. Now they had seeped back out, reigniting the fury into a mutated wildfire of self-loathing. It had been all he could do to try and push Talia away even as he struggled to comprehend the embattled emotions warring in his heart.
Smoke billowing up from the bonnet of the truck was the first sign that something was amiss, soon accompanied by a nauseating rattle sound. Brakes squealing, the SRU stopped the vehicles and each member leaped from their seats to investigate. That was when Kirkland noticed the smoke coming from the front of the other lorry as well.
“Well, we’re going nowhere fast,” Perkins announced as she turned away from the first truck’s engine compartment.
Kirkland tromped over to peer at the smoking motor. “No way to fix it?”
“Fix it? We’re lucky it didn’t blow up! No, this fella is well and proper fucked.”
With a scowl, Shokri offered up a burnt component. “This was no accident. Both trucks had their cooling systems fail in the exact same way.”
“Someone sabotaged them while we were in Grantham?”
“Not likely. Remember, I was watching them the entire time you idiots were treating yourselves to a barfight,” Shokri answered. “I’m guessing it was those kids. The ones traveling with that weirdo.”
“The children did this?” Mitchell asked in disbelief.
Perkins pointed at the ginger-haired officer. “Did you forget where you are? This is the Northern Reach! If the wildlife up here doesn’t kill you, the local brats certainly will. Those little beasties will gnaw your bones to dust if it means they get to live past another measly day.”
Eyes filled with a newfound worry, Mitchell peeked between the two disabled vehicles as if he finally understood the seriousness of this operation. Beneath his visor, Kirkland could not help but roll his eyes. This kind of ignorance was why he would have rather completed this mission by himself.
Being part of the Recon Division was supposed to mean he would tackle threats to his Clan via nonconventional means. Focusing on flexible and rapid insertions to neutralize concerns that dwelt outside the norm. While that might have been the initial pitch, of late he’d found himself serving as rented muscle for the zaibatsu. Hopefully Talia, Kawa, and Ruiz were all faring better in their current assignments.
Temur leaned over the bed of a truck and addressed Kirkland: “What do you want us to do? If that mill is real, we’re still a long way off.”
“I say we double back for Grantham. Teach those hicks what happens when you confuse our kindness for weakness,” Perkins seethed. “Maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll even cross paths with that old man and his brood again.”
The rest of the SRU perked up at this suggestion, Nguyen excitedly rubbing his hands together at the prospect of violence. Mitchell paled at the idea and began slinking back toward a truck, almost as though he wanted to distance himself from the proposed massacre. The dichotomy of humanity on display: fight or flight.
Kirkland motioned onwards. “That mill is the only lead we have. Remember the mission. There will be time enough to torch the village on our return. Till then, we push forward.”
The disappointment in the group was palpable; hounds that had been denied their supper. He could only hope they put the interests of their employer over their own barbaric nature to maim and burn out of spite. Some part of him wanted to join in as well, relieve stress by venting his rage against creatures weaker than himself, but he had to let such desires pass. He was not in Shah anymore.
“Hear that?” Perkins said. “We’ve got a job to do! Grab what you can and load whatever else onto the drones. We’re moving hard and fast to earn our paycheck!”
6
It was midday by the time Kirkland could no longer see any trace of the abandoned vehicles, the climb into the uplands taking them beyond the trees and into great patches of long amber grass that seemed to gleam in the noon sun. Once more, it kindled childhood memories, and he found he could not suppress a wistful smile.
How many hours had he spent as a boy playing in fields like this? And there had been a girl too. His headstrong childhood friend with the scars on her neck who all the local mothers disdained. The two of them were forever causing mischief together though somehow, he always avoided being blamed for it, the people more than happy to cast accusations at the orphan girl.
Scaling the terrain was no difficulty for the SRU, the human officers bounding over rocks like antelopes thanks to the heightened mobility granted to them by their exo-frames. Resembling a dog, a Canis drone raced to keep up with them despite the boxes of rations and munitions weighing it down. Even though the machine was a product of a rival company, they valued it for its load capacity and sure-footedness, Dragoons were even known to use them from time to time. Less agile, however, was the armored wheeled drone, and Temur had to pause in her trek to allow the automaton to catch up. It was for the best anyway; Mitchell could hardly keep pace with it.
Huffing and puffing the entire way, cheeks flushed from exertion, the red-haired officer struggled from one point to another, asking for the rest of the group to pause every ten minutes so he could catch his breath. No one ever obliged him. It might have appeared cruel, but in Kirkland’s mind, the man would not be of use in a fight, anyway. Better he lagged so far behind that he was forgotten. Maybe it would motivate him to pick up the pace, or perhaps he would be better off returning to Grantham until the mission was complete.
“Why’re your bullets so different than mine?” Kirkland heard Mitchell ask Nguyen during a breather the team had universally agreed to take.
It was a picturesque spot, large swaths of violet alpine flowers surrounding them as bees flitted from one blossom to another. If it had been displayed on a screen or someone’s wall Kirkland might have shrugged at it, except being there in its very presence, seeing the breeze stir the plants like a dancing purple ribbon along the mountainside was enough to momentarily quiet the turmoil boiling in his soul.
