www.thevalentinechronicles.com presents:
Bad Blood
by Paul L. Mathews
Wooden Heart
With a roar of displaced
air the Troika lunged out of the night. Throttle opened up full,
Throttling back, turgid
seawater pissing from the holes in its hull, the Troika overshot the
clearing, exposing its aft to the remaining Calci
gunship—its aft, and its hangar. Vast—knelt on the
brink of the hangar’s open doors—fired a compact anti-aircraft rocket she held
to her shoulder. The fiery wake of the rocket tore toward the gunship,
thundering into its skeletal face just as it managed to bring its weapons to
bear. The resulting explosion ripped the front from the ship, the broken
skeletal crew spat into the air, and the remaining Scythe finished the job with
a barrage from its chain-guns. This last Calci
gunship slurred out of the sky and exploded somewhere beyond the trees. Moments
later the last of the Calci infantry fell to the Moreaus.
Crouching amongst the
debris and smoke on the ground, Tatiana grinned. “Nice work, Kat! Now, get down
here—we’ve got work to do.”
#
Ash, bone, and dead bark
swirled about the Troika as it landed, hangar doors still open. Vast,
Stalin, and Ivan stood in the hangar, waiting for Tatiana and the others. Ivan
flexed his arms nervously. Would Tatiana be in one piece? She may still be
alive, but what if she were hurt? Ivan doubted he could control his anger if
Boyd had allowed her to be hurt.
With a whir of weary
hydraulics, the cutter’s ramp came down, and Tatiana and Boyd boarded. Ignoring
the fifteen or so bedraggled Moreaus that accompanied
them, Ivan lurched forward as soon as he saw his niece being helped aboard by
Boyd.
“Oh,
Ivan! Thank God!” Tatiana pushed away
from Boyd, and almost collapsed into her Uncle’s embrace. Tears rolled down the
pale blue of her cheeks, clearing a channel in the blood and dirt. “I thought
we were all going to die!”
Ivan didn’t answer. He just
squeezed Tatiana tight, and closed his eyes even tighter. He didn’t know who
these animal headed creatures were, but he’d be damned if he was going to cry
in front of them.
After a moment, he held
Tatiana at arm’s length. “You look awful, yes?”
“You should see the other
guy.”
They laughed, and Ivan
grinned, looking at her. She was becoming more like her father everyday.
“C’mon, Princess,” Boyd
said as—avoiding eye-contact with Ivan—he stepped up to Tatiana, wrapping an
arm about her shoulders, “you need sickbay.”
“Just a
minute, Boyd.” Ivan hadn’t seen any Moreaus in action for years. He wanted to ask who these
were, but he stopped, distracted. Something had changed in Tatiana. There was a
subtle tension when Boyd touched her. A delicate yearning?
And why did she look that way at the Scot? What had passed between them? Had
Boyd ignored Ivan’s dire warning about touching his niece?
Derailing Ivan’s train of
thought, a Moreau with a goat’s head came to stand with them, saying, “This is
Ivan, your leader?”
“Leader?” Ivan looked at the Moreau. He was covered in blood and
smelt like wet dogs. He stood tall and straight, but the trembling in his limbs
and the agony in his eyes told Ivan this creature was in a lot of pain. “No, I
am not their ‘leader’. I am their Uncle, yes?” He turned to Tatiana and Boyd,
gesturing at Stanztrigger. “Who is this?
“Ivan,” Boyd said, “this is
the leader of the Eaters, Stanztrigger.”
Ivan’s mouth fell open. “Stanztrigger? The
Eaters? As in, the Eaters?”
“The
same.” The pain in his eyes momentarily
displaced with pride, he seemed to gain an inch in height, his chest swelling.
“He and his company,” Boyd
said, “they saved mine and Tatiana’s lives. Stanztrigger,
this is Ivan Valentine, ex of the Omega Hammers.”
“My God. It is a pleasure… an honour to meet you, yes?” Ivan
extended his hand. “You’re a legend in the Pagentorns.”
Stanztrigger gripped Ivan’s hand and, after a swift shake, lifted it to
his nose. He sniffed at the wrist delicately. The flaring of the nostrils, and the gentle inhalation of scent and air made
Ivan squirm, and he looked at his niece.
Tatiana merely smiled a wan
smile, saying, “He does that.”
“You are a man of
principle, courage, and determination.” Stanztrigger
lowered Ivan’s hand and slapped him on the shoulder. “It will be my pleasure to
finally kill Crepitus with you beside me.”
“Kill Crepitus…?
Of course! The Beggar Barons paid you to kill him. You engaged him at Danica’s Tears.”
“And
lost. Badly.
My wife and son were killed along with two thirds of my men. Now I shall have
my revenge.”
“About that,” Tatiana said.
“Shouldn’t we be going?”
“Indeed. Tatiana, you will
go to sickbay, and Katarina will fly Troika, yes?”
“No.”
Ivan blinked, looking at
Tatiana with surprise. “What?”
“No, Uncle.” She looked
back at him, jaw set and her chin protruding. “I’m not going to sickbay until
we’re all safe. I won’t sit this one out. Besides,” she sniffed, lifting her
head to look down her nose, “Kat can’t fly the ship as well as me.”
“Princess, you’re hurt—”
“I said ‘No’, Boyd—”
“Tatiana—Tzarina—Boyd is right—”
“No! And that’s final!” She
stamped her foot. “Now, get me to the flight-deck so we can get this over
with.”
A brief pause,
and Ivan nodded. “Very well.” He looked at Tatiana, at
the surrender in her body as Boyd propped her up, and he balked. He didn’t want
to leave her with the Scot. Not until he found out what was going on. If that
man had touched her, if he’d forced himself upon her…
“Vast, you will take Tatiana to the flight-deck and stay with her whilst we
find Crepitus, yes?”
“What? Wait a minute—”
Ivan held up his hand. “No,
Boyd. You will be coming with me, and Vast will stay aboard Troika.”
“But Vast’s
worth ten of me! You’ll stand a lot better chance against the Calci if she’s with you.”
“Vast is worth ten of you,
correct…” His voice trailed off briefly, nostrils flaring. What could he smell?
That indefinable—yet unmistakably—scent that was uniquely Thom’s. He felt a
little light-headed. Why could he smell Thom? Marshalling his senses, he
focused on Boyd. “And that is why she stays with the girls, yes?”
“But, Uncle—”
“No, Tatiana. I have made
up my mind. Boyd comes with me.”
Boyd and Ivan glared at one
another, and—out of the corner of his eyes—Ivan could
see Tatiana looking at them in turn, like a spectator at a tennis match. Ivan’s
lip curled and he inhaled deeply, his chest expanding as he drew himself to his
full height, looming over Boyd.
“Okay, you’re the boss.”
That trace of Thom, that delicate taste in the air, vanished, but Boyd’s glare
did not. As Vast took Tatiana by the arm and led her away, the Scot stepped
forward, shoulder blocking Ivan. “You’d better be right about this, Ivan,” he
murmured as he pushed past.
Ivan stared after him, and
saw Stanztrigger as he also watched the Scot walk
away. A dark look fell upon the Moreau’s face. Dark, and a
little sorrowful.
#
The Balefire’s
darkened bridge smelt of rotting meat, and its walls of bone and muscle
glistened with blood. Skeletal Calci stood rigid
around the periphery, hard-wired into the ship by umbilical cords that pierced
the back of their skulls. A massive, blood-shot eye sat in the ceiling,
blinking occasionally as it looked down on Petrid.
Stood at the centre of the
bridge, she regarded a bank of monitors burnt into the bridge’s main walls,
their frames smudged and lost beneath scar tissue and pearly buttons that
peeped from clitoral hoods. The monitors betrayed the Troika lifting off
from the planet and heading for the Balefire.
Behind her, the vulva that
marked the bridge’s main door parted, and Crepitus
entered, flanked by the Bone Valentines. Hands concealed in leather gloves, Crepitus buttoned up his uniform jacket. Soon the jackets
high collar covered the wood of his neck, and he at least resembled the man he
used to be. “What news, daughter?” The words slithered from his lips, rearing
and spitting at her like a serpent.
“The Valentine have evaded
*tk* evaded *tk* evaded our
ground forces. As we speak they are approaching the Balefire *tk* the Balefire *tk* the Balefire
aboard the Troika.”
“They’re approaching us?”
Something approaching a laugh convulsed on his lips. “How
typically stupid.”
“I have fighters *tk* fighters at the ready, and batteries *tk* batteries three through twelve have the Troika
in their sights.”
“No. The Troika will
be allowed to dock. Then you will intercept its crew and kill them—”
“But,
father, our *tk* our *tk*
our forces. We haven’t many resources
to call o—”
“Recall the ground forces
if you have to. I don’t care. Just make sure the Troika’s crew are
killed, and the Valentines are brought to me. You will oversee the operation
personally.” Stepping up to her, he gripped her slender wooden shoulders. “And Petrid? Should they beg?
Should you falter? The Valentines took Scullion from us. Never forget that.” He
stepped aside and gestured toward the door. “Now go.”
She lowered her head
dutifully, a tear rolling down her painted cheek. “Yes, father.”
#
The hangar door remained
open as the cutter forged its way toward Crepitus’s
ship. Ivan—with Boyd and Stalin beside him—stood on the verge of the door
whilst holding a safety cordon. The wind whipped his white hair about his brow,
and he had to squint against the dust and ash that assailed him. He watched the
island recede. It looked small and diseased. Lonely.
He glanced over his shoulder at the Moreaus, and
wondered how they’d survived in such a desolate place.
They were now in two rows,
knelt with heads down as Stanztrigger, eyes closed,
stood before them, reciting the Lord’s Prayer. One of the Moreaus,
who wasn’t listening, noticed Ivan. The one with the lion’s
head. Although knelt, he was looking about the hangar and tilting his head
to one side as though listening to the whine of the
“They’re going to do it!
They are! They’re going to shoot us down!”
Ivan looked at Stalin as
the cyborg dog paced back and forth by his feet,
magnetic paws securing him to the deck as his ceramic claws tapped against the
metal. Tongue out, panting, skinthetic eyebrows
raised, his tail was between his legs and he looked like he was about to die of
fright.
“I doubt it, Stalin. I know
this man, yes? He wants me and the girls in one piece to torture us.” He
allowed himself a small, dark smile before teasing, “He’ll probably just shoot
you on sight, however.”
The cutter reached Crepitus’s ship, and Ivan watched as the wounded underbelly
of the Balefire swallowed the sky above. Cracked, blood leaking from the
fissures, the bone hull was burnt and tortured. Clearly the Troika
wasn’t the only damaged ship.
The cutter slowed before
climbing up and into one of the Balefire’s open hangars. Only the Troika’s
running lights assuaged the darkness therein. As its
“We’re here.” Tatiana’s
voice sounded tired over the comm, and Ivan was sure
the bad landing was a reflection on her condition.
The Moreaus
sprang to their feet, moving toward the hangar door. Simultaneously the Troika’s
spotlights burst into life, illuminating the darkness beyond. Ivan allowed
himself a small, sardonic smile. It was just as he remembered. Like a scene
from the Inferno. Red, dripping shreds of lacerated muscle hung from the ribs
that formed the arched ceiling, and sheered bone speared into the open air. The
smell of rotten meat choked the atmosphere. The broken bodies of skeletal Calci were cast about the bony deck, their remains almost
lost amongst the smashed wreckage of fighters. Once these dog-skull vessels
would have hung from the rib-cage ceiling, but now they were smashed and strewn
about the hangar. Flies with staring and bloodshot eyes for heads flew to and
fro, the insidious buzz of their wings multi-layered and constant.
“Secure the area,” Stanztrigger said to his Moreaus,
and Ivan turned with some interest to observe this creature in action.
The Moreaus’
response was immediate. Jumping from the Troika, they spread through the
Balefire’s hangar with their SMGs raised
before kneeling in a circle around the cutter.
Only the lion remained with
Stanztrigger, listening intently to his comm set. “Perimeter secure, sir,”
he said as he turned to his commander.
“Excellent,” Stanztrigger said. “Now we move out.” He turned to Ivan. “I
trust you are coming with us?”
“Of
course. Me and the
dog, yes?”
“What? No
way!”
“Yes,
Stalin. Now shut up.”
“Very
well.” Stanztrigger
turned to his lion lieutenant, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing it.
“Joseph, you stay here with Lorelei and the others.
Protect this ship—and the Princesses—at all costs. We will need them if we are
to escape. Do you understand?”
Joseph nodded, the matted
hair in his lions mane quivering. He cast a furtive glance at Ivan before
answering, “Yes, sir.”
“And, Joseph, I know you
must be hungry, but on no account must you—or any of your team—eat any
part of the Calci bodies left on the Troika. Do you understand?”
Joseph nodded once more. “Yes, sir.”
“Right,” Boyd said, raising
his Calci maser to his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“No.” Stanztrigger
raised his hands, halting them. “Not yet.”
Ivan raised an eyebrow.
“Not yet?”
“As much as I respect your
principles and your moral fibre, Ivan Valentine, I will not let my Moreaus die as they fight beside an unarmed man. I must
insist you carry a weapon.”
The Moreau’s gaze locked
onto Ivan’s, who smiled before saying, “As you like.” Crossing over to the
bulkhead beside the hangar door, he wrenched a fire-axe from an open tool
locker, and brandished it with both hands. “Now we go, yes?”
#
Petrid stood in the fleshy elevator, en route to the Troika.
Unable to close her eye, she bowed her head and covered her face with her
wooden hands. She imagined, just for moment, that she was a brave fairytale
warrior-woman making her way through the wicked wizard’s castle as she sought
to slay the evil witches. Like Joan of Arc, or Maria Morevna,
or Nordwina the Eiffellender,
her armour glistened, her crown glittered, and her sword gleamed. Then, when
she had slain the witches, her winged horse would carry her home to her
Princess, and their castle in the sky.
Lost to the fantasy, she
didn’t feel her tears slip between her wooden fingers, running down her hand
and soaking the cuff of her mouldy old dress.
#
The unit
of ten Moreaus—with Ivan, Stanztrigger,
and Boyd taking point—advanced across the hangar, their boots struggling for
grip on the bloody bones. As they
approached one of the hangar doors, it slopped open with a wet squelch. Immediately skeletal Calci poured forth,
firing as they came.
To either side of Ivan two Moreaus went down, their chests vanishing as they were
converted into photons by the Calci’s masers. As Boyd
and Stanztrigger’s masers flashed, the bestial
company returned fire, their SMGs loud and bright in
the gloom and oppressive silence. The first wave of Calci
fell, but the ranks behind pressed on, striding over their dead comrades and
closing the gap to the invaders. Then—with blades springing from cybernetic
sheaths above their wrists—they engaged the Moreaus
hand-to-hand.
One lunged for Ivan, who
heaved with his axe, splitting the skull in half and destroying the cybernetic
brain within. As the Calci collapsed, Ivan stepped
over the body, gritting his teeth in pain and determination. Beside him Boyd
continued to fire, cutting the Calci down before they
could reach him, and Stanztrigger used his rifle as a
club, crushing skulls and breaking bones with a savage passion. Of Stalin there
was no sign. With a further swing of his axe, Ivan beheaded another Calci.
Then the battle was over,
ending as quickly as it had begun. The Calci were
beaten down and smashed to pieces. Their limbs twitched and sparked as small
spirals of smoke writhed about them. A cheer went up from the Moreaus.
“No time to celebrate, Stanztrigger,” Ivan said. The strength of Crepitus’s forces had always been sheer weight of numbers.
Small units like this would be easy to overcome, but they couldn’t afford to
let the Calci regroup. “We must move on.”
The Moreau nodded. “Agreed.” He turned to his unit, gesturing toward the open
door. “Forward. I will take point.”
As the unit moved passed
him, Ivan paused to look over his shoulder. The Troika sat in the
half-light, and—even from there—he could see Tatiana and Katarina through the
cutter’s smashed canopy. They waved to him. As he waved back, he tapped at his comm set, saying, “Tatiana. Katarina.
Be careful. Crepitus will send more Calci here. Maybe even his daughter.” He stopped, looking
toward the small knot of Moreaus they’d left to guard
the ship, focusing on the lion Joseph. Aware they were on an open channel, he
switched to the Oridian equivalent of Latin, saying, “Lola hule llionen. Stealu by ellastat
ledom trafe Joseph. I-jainkir
nodt lohoush ellehan,”
There was a small pause
before Tatiana said, “I-jainkir aadosjalkis, Uncle.”
“Aaja
hule,” said Katarina.
“Ivan Valentine. We must
go. Now!”
Ivan turned to see Stanztrigger and his unit waiting at the door. “I’m
coming.” Ivan said, limping toward them.
As he approached, Stanztrigger went through the door, Boyd and the Moreaus piling in after him. Tagging onto the end of the
line, Ivan reached the door and looked back for the last time. His gaze fell
upon Joseph; the lion's green eyes shone with reflected half-light as he
watched them leave.
To be continued...
© 2008
Mathew David Spaull. All rights reserved.