Chapter 7: The Ship Of Years Part 3

You weren't supposed to think in a combat situation. You couldn't weigh options or make decisions, you just reacted. Okay, a powersuit's AI could give a nudge, but in the end, the right reactions could only come from thousands of hours of drilling.

Except Andrea had never trained for a situation remotely like this one.

Infrared and sonar bursts had given her the layout of this conflict even before she threw Chris at it. Eight soldiers in metallic armor surrounded the time machine, with two other upright hostiles and some more on the ground. Classic hostage situation.

Except that the second Andrea stepped into this clearing, she saw how classic this situation wasn't. Those weren't fabricated machine-guns with bootleg ammo, but spears and swords and bows. They weren't issuing demands via web-cast. They weren't even shouting propaganda through a megaphone. The hostiles were just standing there, in their crappy armor, holding their pitiful non-weapons. Which meant -

WARNING. MULTIPLE NON-COMS DETECTED. LACK OF SUFFICIENT THREAT. EXITING COMBAT MODE.

Her suit sagged around her. A directed shock twitched Andrea's hands out of attack position.

Fuck! The guy in the woods had initiated battle, but the suit didn't think the bronze-age centurions presented enough danger for Andrea to legally attack them. She could only walk slowly toward them, arms raised in a pre-programmed non-threatening macro, and hope her suit stayed spear-proof.

At least she could still yell. "Larsen, sitrep!"

"What?" The idiot had only now gotten to his feet. "What's a sitrep?"

"Just get in the fucking time machine." She called up her HUD, frantically blinked through the legal bullshit. No, these Mesozoic centurions hadn't filed a notice of peaceful demonstration. Yes, she would testify they did not represent an oppressed minority or native group. No, none of them was employed by the government or a signatory of the Vienna Convention...

"What about Dr. Yang and Upton?" Larsen called.

"What, you mean they aren't already with you?" Did any of these people have the instinct of self-preservation God gave a Chihuahua?

"No! Help!" That was from inside the circle of hostiles. Dr. Yang. Tied up. Next to -

"They've killed him. Please help! They killed him."

Next to a corpse.

Andrea swore out loud. You don't get real, battle-certified powersuits if you're going on a dinosaur safari. If you're going into a war zone, okay, you get this big mech with onboard fuel cells, relativistic cannons, radiation-shielding. And the fucking mask that would have protected Upton from the spear that had demolished his face.

Andrea's powersuit, cheap-ass corporate knock-off that it was, was still smart enough to catch the focus of her horrified stare. Her HUD flickered, and she got a beautifully enhanced, diamond-sharp close-up image of the bloody hole where Dr. Upton's nose used to be.

No time to think about how a man Andrea was supposed to protect was now dead. She forced the AI to see the clear and present fucking danger. An agonizing half-second of processing, but then a new range of options in her HUD interface. Long-range, high-energy, plasma-spewing options.

Her suit's legs stiffened, expanding in jagged black claws that dug into the ground beneath her.

"Larsen!" she ordered, "Get Yang into the time machine."

The powersuit shifted, hardening into a stress-resistant shell. The heat vents on her back expanded, spreading sheets of radiator material like steaming wings.

Chris was shouting, but Andrea didn't listen. She also didn't pay attention to whatever the natives were doing. Milliseconds blurred by. Upton was dead and she had to get out of this swamp.

Now the powersuit was being more cooperative. Was that her target? The bald guy with the beard who was doing most of the yelling? Yes. Was the area behind her clear? Probably not, but what the hell. Was she sure she wanted to activate this particle cannon? Hell, yeah.

Her legs braced for traction, Andrea brought up her arm, wrist and elbow locked, the fabric of the powersuit hunching into a rough tubular gun barrel. The accelerator-coil glowed.

Best to not think, because if Andrea thought, she would remember that she'd gotten one of her clients killed. And if she thought a little more, she'd realize that this was the most fun she'd had in years.

***

"You see, Trals," said Ngarong, "the angel salutes me."

Few indeed possessed the ability to react quickly during a battle. Most men required peace and calm with which to think, or simply let loose the reins on instinct and plunged into red battle-madness. Not Trals Scarback.

For Trals, battle was the only time his mind could soar among the pterosaurs. Given time, lumbering Ngarong would surely come to understand that the "angel," enraged at the death of her comrade, was about to unleash her fury on him. Given much less time, the Slaver would be reduced to a bleeding stump. And he had the key to Trals's cangue.

Like an angry triceratops, Trals rammed his head into the Slaver's back. He and Ngarong sprawled across the ground just ahead of a beam of throbbing, white-hot death. The very air in Trals's lungs trembled and burned. A thousand polar cyclones rang their thunder in his ears. Trees on the opposite end of the clearing simply ceased to be.

Such power! If only Trals had possessed this weapon in Luna Meridiana, the Slaver city would be a smoldering ruin now.

"It would appear the angel has rejected your offer of worship," said Trals over the ringing in his ears. "Now release me so I can get rid of her."

Ngarong snarled up under the edge of the cangue, limbs scrabbling for purchase in the dirt. "You're insane."

"In my insanity I have saved your life, Captain Ngarong of the Ankylosaur." Trals could not waste time on anger. How long would it take the foreigner to re-aim her thunderbolt weapon?

He looked up and was pleased to see that Ngarong's men had taken it upon themselves to defend their captain. On the other end of the clearing, a Slaver soldier swung his sword at the foreigner. A black, speed-blurred arm sliced through the fool's torso. Which meant their adversary was distracted for the moment.

Trals bore down on Ngarong with his full weight, pinning the man to the ground. "Release me so I can deal with the angel."

The Slaver was no fool. "How?"

"The way we Ethlek always deal with you Slavers. We'll depend on surprise, knowledge of the terrain," Trals rocked back onto his haunches, releasing Ngarong, "and hostages."

Another soldier drew his bow, but didn't even have time to nock an arrow before the foreigner pointed at him. Another column of light reduced the man's body to steaming ash.

Ngarong trembled. "We cannot hope to fight that thing."

"We can. Get up," Trals ordered. "Look. She protects the Ship. Her entire attack is centered on it. That is her treasure. Her talisman, her holy relic. And if you hold it," he flashed a grin at his enemy, "she will be ours."

Ngarong got to his hands and knees, glaring. "You crazy barbarian. You plan to capture that battle-angel?"

A soldier cleverer than the others dodged behind the foreigner. He struck, only to see his short sword bounce off the black-sheathed neck. Her hand flashed out, and the bronze blade parted like paper. Next came the soldier's arm, then his head.

"Get into the Ship of Years," said Trals. "Place yourself in it so she cannot hurl thunderbolts at you." He rattled his cangue. "And unlock this contraption, that I may deal with your angel for you."

Weeping, the last soldier threw down his weapon and raised his hands. What was the expression on the foreigner's blood-spattered face as she twitched away from the surrendering man?

Frustration?

Interesting.

"All right," Ngarong fumbled at his belt for his key-ring. The simple metal rod depressed the release in the cangue's lock, and the hinged plank of wood dropped away. Trals straightened. Popped his neck.

The deadly foreigner turned toward them, blood dripping from her jagged claws.

Ngarong pushed himself to his feet. "Now, Trals, I'm - "

With a single motion, Trals ducked, snatched his sword back from the sheath at Ngarong's side, and gave the captain a good shove.

Now no obstructions stood between the renegade angel and the greatest warrior on the Face of God.

With the sword Vritai once again in his hands, Trals Scarback raced forth to meet his destiny.

***

Chris wiped blood off his face. "Dr. Yang," he said, "we have to get away."

"I can't." His boss had stopped screaming. Her voice was pretty calm, actually, but she was rocking in the mud, eyes closed. "I can't. Help me. They tied me up."

"You're wearing a powersuit," Chris pointed out. "You can just break the ropes." Then he realized: you're wearing a powersuit, too. You can just pick her up. He leaned down. "Here, let me - "

Unfortunately, Dr. Yang chose that moment to remember her own superpowers, and struck out with all four limbs simultaneously. The blows would have gone through an un-suited man's chest, but Chris didn't mind. At least he wasn't being thrown into the side of a helicopter.

"We need to get out of here." Chris tried to pick her up again, but Dr. Yang's suit was as strong as his, and she'd evidently figured out how to activate the self-defense macros. She had him face-down in the mud in less than a second, and ran past him toward the Hilbert Space vehicle.

The vehicle's central compartment was half-unpacked, crates stacked everywhere. Doctors Yang and Upton had been in the middle of setting up camp when the natives attacked. God, it was so bright in here. So clean. If not for all the mud on the floor, the nightmare outside might not be happening at all. Chris realized his knees had given out, and only the suit stopped him from toppling over.

The doors slid closed.

"What are you doing?" Chris blinked at Dr. Yang. The adrenaline was wearing off, and he wanted more than anything to just conk out here where he stood.

"One of us is dead," she blinked commands into her HUD-bindi. "We're leaving."

Chris had to work to understand what she meant. "But...Andrea."

"That stupid soldier got us into this mess. She can stay here until we come back for her." The vehicle vibrated. The rotors were spinning up.

"Whoa, wait." Chris leaped at her. It was a stupid thing to do. Dr. Yang had eye-blink interface with the vehicle through her HUD-bindi, just like him. It wasn't like he could force her hands off a control panel. Plus, it seemed like he was the worst powersuit pilot of the Mesozoic. Maybe except for Upton.

Dr. Yang knocked Chris's hands aside, spun, put out a foot, and presto, Chris was down again.

"You can't fly a Hilbert Space vehicle," he burbled into the mud on the floor.

"Sure I can. It's harder to negotiate my way past the legal waivers than it is to pilot." The vibrations intensified.

Chris picked himself up. "We have to wait for Andrea."

"We'll get reinforcements, and come back to these coordinates."

"But if we don't leave a beacon, the machine is only accurate to within five thousand years."

She looked at him, eyes blank with terror, "We are leaving this place, Dr. Larsen, if I have to - " Her mouth hung open. She was staring behind him.

Chris twisted, and saw the man hiding behind the crates. A short, burly, bearded man got up in an outfit from a particularly gritty medieval role-playing game. It was the one Andrea had almost shot. And he was bowing.

***

So the scientists, the ones who survived, were back in the time machine. Andrea was almost tempted to let them go and just keep fighting bad guys for a while. How long had it been since the last adrenaline rush? Shit, the exit-evaluations had been right. Andrea was fucking nuts.

Vision bright, arms and legs smoking, Andrea brought her weapons to bear on her next target.

It was the big one, again. The prisoner. Except now, somehow, he was free. Between the body-hair and the mop-like mane of dreadlocks on his head, the caveman's big, square face was split in a wide, homicidal grin. In his hands was a long, black sword.

Andrea didn't want to waste energy on another p-cannon blast. She just jumped at him. Her suit stiffened over her hands and wrists, fingers elongating into diamond-sharp claws. One good punch and she'd plaster the caveman's face across the inside of his skull.

Except the caveman threw his sword down at her feet. And raised his hands.

No fucking way.

Andrea's suit zapped her. ENTERING READINESS/NEGOTIATION MODE.

ABORT, Andrea blinked, frantically shoving against the locked limbs of the machine. But the thing was auto-de-arming now, antipersonnel spines and cooling fins flowing back into their reservoirs, claws turning back into useless hands. Andrea lost a full meter of height.

They both just stood there, gasping at each other, close enough to touch, and the caveman would not stop grinning.

"Okay," Andrea said, "you can't keep spoofing the humanitarian programming forever. As soon as you make any sudden moves, so can I. And I promise you, big guy, my moves will be a lot more sudden than yours."

Green eyes flashed under heavy brows and he spoke. Andrea had no idea what he said of course, but her general impression was: Yer purty.

A sudden noise as the time machine's rotors spun up. Wait, were Larsen and Yang actually leaving without her? Let the bastards fucking try without the passwords. Still, no sense hanging out in acid-trip lizard-land any longer than she had to.

Andrea took a molasses-slow, straining step sideways.

The caveman moved to block her, still talking. Where you think yer goin'? He seemed to be saying.

Andrea gritted her teeth and forced her suit to bring her eye-to-hairy-nipple with the babbling brute. "You want a hole through your chest?" Andrea craned her head up. "No? Then step the fuck aside."

He smelled like smoke and sweat and clay. Those green eyes focused on her like the cameras of an attack drone. They flicked to something behind her.

Battle conditioning took over. Andrea spun to face the new threat.

Something in the trees went fffft.

Andrea slapped at her naked throat, saw the blood, felt the dart come away in her hand. Stupid fucking UN programmers. Slow-moving, non-metallic, no electronics. For all her suit knew, this poisoned dart was a bumble-bee.

Andrea had enough time to begin a decapitating swing at the grinning savage in front of her. Then what felt like burning gasoline splashed across her skin. Every muscle in her body seized. Her lungs spasmed in her chest.

NEUROLOGICAL ABNORMALITY, her HUD flashed, SEEK IMMEDIATE MEDICAL ATTENTION.

No fucking kidding. Andrea sagged inside her suit. She kept her murky vision on the face of the caveman. Damn, but the son of a bitch looked pleased with himself.

"The next time I see you, I'm going to kill you," she said. Or thought she said. She was too unconscious to know for certain.