The Bodyguard (Part 7)
Part 7.
7.
Something was watching them. Castor saw it for a second, a figure standing high in the branches of a distant tree, red eyes glowing from beneath what looked like a hood. They stared at each other for a moment, Castor blinked, and it was gone.
“We need to go.”
He grabbed Cassi by the arm and together they ran down the stone path. He reached to activate his comms unit, but before he could, a wailing alarm screamed its way through the forest. When they got there the others had already formed a perimeter around the central campsite, the aircars acting like a wagon circle.
“Nice of youse to join us,” bellowed the giant. “Calvo says there’s around 40 of them, coming in from the north.”
Castor took up a position behind the limousine, and waited. The alarms quietened. Silence. Then a low rumble and the slow crunch of forest debris being tramped on, and the continuous click click of empty firearms being cocked and fired. They came out of the forest and into the clearing, a shamble of rusted, moss-covered drones, groaning and clicking as they came.
Bart shot first, fanning the first wave. Two crumbed to the ground, one dragging itself along by its arms. The other four faltered but kept moving. Castor opened up with his automatic, the remaining walkers of the first wave disintegrating under the force of the explosive rounds.
“Should’ve lead with those!” shouted the Texan as he pulled a cylinder from his bandoleer.
They were getting closer now, barely 30 meters out. An enormous bang shook the clearing and four of the drones in the back crumbled smoking to the ground. Fiadh had positioned herself on the roof of the far coach, her rifle resting on an enormous bipod, visor down. “There’s a big fekker in the back,” she said calmly through her comms unit.
Another bang. “Feck, deflected.”
“Focus on the wee ones, looks like there’s a tractor with them, we’ll deal with it later,” bellowed the giant.
Him and Irene were shielding a shotgun-wielding Arabella. A bang came from the forest edge, and one of the servants fell screaming. Ana dragged him off to cover and began tending to him. The two gunmen, Castor and Bart, immediately swivelled and unloaded into the large bipedal gun drone, to little effect. It fired again, the shot ripping into Castor’s shoulder, tearing off what was left of the biological parts of his arm, and his prosthetics with it. He yelped, but kept shooting, his body dosing itself automatically with strong painkillers. It tried to fire a third time, but its gun misfired and exploded, taking its torso with it. They were within mere meters now. Castor and Bart retreated, firing as they went. Hiji and Irene flanked them and began cutting the advanced group down. Castor marvelled at the grace with which they moved, and in such different styles. Hiji’s broad practiced strikes and smooth, calculated footwork contrasted with Irene’s wide spinning dance in a way that could only be described as beautiful. As the advance numbers dwindled, the tractor tore its way through the trees at the edge of the clearing. It was a simple bulldozer model, not designed for combat but built to resist damage. An ear-splitting crack sounded as another of Fiadh’s rounds careened of the ‘dozer’s shield.
“Not cutting it boss,” she said with all the calmness of someone ordering a drink.
“Finish off the little ones,” roared the giant.
He began to run, his steps practically shaking the ground as he went. He picked up the little samurai as he went, placing him on his shoulders, and shoulder charged the bulldozer, wrestling it to a near stop. Hiji jumped on its roof, and began cutting into it, his monomolecular sword slicing into the relatively soft circuitry shielded behind the ‘dozer blades. The others had tightened the circle around their Lady and the non-combatants, Irene spinning, her own sword making light work of any who got near. Castor and Bart had switched back to regular ammunition, the risk of shrapnel injury too high. One leapt at Calvo, who was doing his best to get in between the drones and his mistress. He let out a raspy shriek. Castor gut-punched it as it flew through the air, knocking it into the path of Irene’s blade dance. She cut it in two with ease and kept moving. Another grabbed Castor, its warped jaws snapping at him momentarily before four small rounds passed through its head, and it collapsed to the floor. Cassi had produced her derringer and unloaded it with sharp precision. The dozer finally halted, screeching as the samurai tore into its innards.
The quiet retuned as quickly as it had left and the group stood there, panting, surrounded by broken machinery. Castor looked down, his uniform was covered with blood. He stared at it momentarily, then everything went black.
***
“Wake up sweetheart.”
A firm kick to his boots woke Castor with a start. Before he could answer a mug was thrust in his face. Castor took it, the warmth of the metal spreading through his fingers. His comrade sat across from him, his breathing forming plumes of vapour in front of his face.
“Your turn.”
Castor stood and stretched his biological arm, the joints tense aching from the cold. He took his left arm off a nearby table and inserted it into its receiver, the light heat emanating from the internal power plant in his shoulder warmed him slightly, but only slightly. As he exited the covered trench his comrade took Castor’s place, wrapping himself in the already warm blankets. It was quiet, the distant sounds of gunfire and the drone of excavators far behind wafted on the frigid air. The quiet was unnerving. Nobody knew why the machines rested at night, then again, the AI that controlled them was essentially insane, one of a number of splinters of the first fully sentient one - the one that, upon its birth, was confronted with all the information on the net, all at once. It tried to kill itself afterwards, first by hijacking aircraft and flying them into datacentres, then simply any vehicle it could get its hands on. It managed to get into Pakistan’s military network, and erased half of the Indian subcontinent. It didn’t succeed in its suicidal quest, and the severing of network cables between countries and contents resulted in fragments of the AI mind splitting off, each carrying its own brand of deranged psychosis. Others had been isolated and walled off, but the Paris AI had access to drone manufacturing facilities, and rather than attempt to kill itself, had declared war on its makers.
They had spent the past 2 years edging slowly towards Paris and they had now just entered the suburbs. The bloody forests were behind them, the grinding trench warfare that had taken so many of his comrades already. Everyone knew what came next. Urban warfare, street to street, house to house. It would make the trenches look like a beach holiday. Everyone knew, and for the last few weeks a lingering sense of dread had taken over the dismounted 17th Mobile Infantry. Behind them, the drone of the Engineers building what would become a ring of fortifications and walls designed to hold the drones in should all else fail.
Castor’s C.O. approached him, a tall Englishman with a bone-white moustache and sunken eyes. Castor didn’t salute, they had dispensed with that in the forests.
“The Beginning of the end, eh Belisarius?” He spoke quietly, his past joviality and stiff-upper-lip nature worn thin by the horrors of the blood forests.
“Yes, sir.”
They stood there in silence, observing the ruins in front of them. The officer passed Castor a hipflask, the strong, sharp liquid warming him up a bit further. A lone magpie landed near by, watching them, its head tilting back and forth.
***
Castor woke up, the sight of a bombed out Paris imprinted onto his vision in negative. It faded slowly, replaced with the inside of a surgery. He recognised it as the tech-doctor’s practice in the lower levels of the de Saint estate. He groaned, and felt the bandages on his shoulder. His hand returned, bloodless. The sound of breathing nearby made him crane his neck. Cassiopea was slumped in a chair in the corner, asleep, aburn hair lying gently across her face. Her eyes opened and met his.
“You look like shit,” she smiled.
“You don’t.”
The doctor came in moments later, having registered his regaining consciousness from her console in the next room. She was heavily modified, spare arms and medical tools folded into her torso, the lower half of her face covered by a metal mask. Her eyes were a bright blue.
The round that had hit jut below his clavical, shattering the surrounding bones.
“I’ve already replaced most of what broke,” the Doctor spoke, her voice muffled slightly by her mask, “and I fitted a new receiver where your glenoid fossa was. I had to re-enforce your rotator cuff muscles. You’ll ache for a while but you’re body look it well. You took some shrapnel to your thigh, same job there, I’ve strengthened the muscles in the area. I took the liberty of doing the same on the other side, otherwise you’d end up walking funny. You’re surprisingly tolerant to augmentation, I didn’t need any anti-rejection serum.”
“What happened to my arm?”
Cassi answered: “It’s safe. Calvo took it and ran off with it to his workshop not too long ago. He feels bad for not being able to help more. It’s not his fault, but his guilt over his past leaches over sometimes.” She smiled softly, “You’ve been out for a few days, lets get you some fresh air.”
His legs were sore as hell, and Cassiopea had to hold him up as they walked up and out into a courtyard green room, roofed with climbing roses. The summer air smelt sweet. They sat, she lit a cigarette and passed it to him.
“I’ve got to go attend the boss.” She kissed him on the cheek and left, exchanging words with a servant as she did. A jug of ice lemonade and a pack of cigarettes was brought to him. He sat in the shade, chainsmoking. His mind was blank, the physical energy spent on his recovery and surgery had left him quiet and calm. He remembered his dream, and old Rasford, his C.O. He missed him, though not the war. He had died in the lower floors of a hospital they were searching, a few months into the assault on central Paris. They buried him in the remains of a garden, his helmet on a stick. He hoped that somehow the building would have shielded him from the nuke. He doubted it.
“Mornin’,” Bart appeared behind him and took a seat, his heeled boots up on the round table. He lit a cigarette and grinned at Castor, “how you feelin?”
“Could be worse,” replied Castor, “Sore as fuck though.”
The Texan laughed, “you should have seen them while you were out, Cass and the priest were losing their shit, Ana had to kick them out of the cabin at gunpoint.”
Castor tried to imagine what Calvo worrying looked like. A lot of flailing arms, no doubt.
“What a weird week.” Castor looked at the sky. Bart pulled a flask out of his jacket and poured a measure of bourbon into the two tumblers, topping it with the lemonade. They drank in silence for a while.
“We’re off for a while, after that I think the little Lady wants a break. Take it easy, friend.”
He departed, leaving Castor to the sun and bird calls.
After a while a servant came to Castor, the same one that had danced with Bart.
“Our Lady requests your presence.” She was very pretty, blonde hair and deep brown eyes.
“What’s your name?” asked Castor as he got up, with some difficulty. She passed him a cane. “Marie,” she smiled, and lead him to Arabella’s office.
***
“Well done Belisarius.” First name. The Lady of the House stood in her office, leaning against her desk, smoking a cigarette out of a long holder, Cassiopea stood beside her, serenity incarnate. “I trust Allegra took care of you properly. She’s been with my family for many years, and is an excellent doctor, if a little forwards.”
“Yes Ma’am. A bit sore but should be fine in a few days.”
“No need to rush. After that excitement I think we all need to cool off. Mr. Rickard and I are working on our next little jaunt. A relative of mine called to request a meeting.” She made a brief look of disappointment before returning to her usual demenour.
“There was something in the forest, it was watching us.” Said Castor.
“Cassipea told me. Very strange. The group that attacked us seemed unusually organised. They seemed…” she paused, exhaling smoke, “directed.”
“And it avoided the trip-sensors.”
The Lady of the house looked concerned for a moment, before pulling herself back.
“Regardless, I’ve given you all a couple of weeks off. I expect you to be in fine shape by the end,” she looked at Cassiopea, smiling wryly, “take good care of him, Cassiopea.” Irene, standing nearby, stifled a laugh with her hand.
Castor bowed and exited. Rickard was waiting for him.
“You did well, lad. You move well, and you have a fine instinct. The boss likes you. Welcome to the House of Arabella de Saint, try not to die.” He grinned widely and patted Castor on his good shoulder, before walking off.
Castor returned to the green room. He found a small bottle of bourbon and a fresh jug of lemonade waiting for him. He sat, drank, smoked and watched the sky, the occasional cloud passing lazily overhead and towards the distant Alps. He drifted into a light sleep.
“Bel, come on”. A soft, familiar voice called him. He was walking down a country path. A woman was ahead of him, blonde hair flowing. The smell of spring filled his nostrils, jasmine. Everything looked so big, the trunks of the trees like huge columns. He couldn’t make out her face, but he didn’t need to. He missed her.
His missing arm itched as he drifted out of sleep, and he noticed that his legs were already feeling better, the alcohol no doubt helping, but that he was exhausted, the kind of exhaustion that could only be afforded by physical trauma. He returned to his room, blocked out the late afternoon sun with his curtains, and slept, dreamlessly. The first time in a long time.
***
The next few days passed quietly. Cassiopea had shown him the substantial house library, and Castor had spent much of those days in the green room with her, reading and talking. She spoke about her past, a childhood, in the English countryside, not unlike his own. Watching her brothers go off to war on the continent, and how she never saw them again. Her mother’s pain, her father’s decent into alcohol abuse. He wouldn’t get angry, or hit her or his mother, he’d just sit there, staring into the fireplace, unable to deal with the loss of his sons and heirs. Her mother was the one who got her into Arabella’s service, she’d been with her since she was 17. 12 years. The da Silvas were a distant relation to the de Saint branch of the Rossis, and the young Arabella had need of close female servants. Her mother died not long afterwards. She slipped and fell down the worn disrepaired stairs of their ancestral home. Her father shot himself soon afterwards. Castor told her what he could recall of his childhood. His single mother trying as much as she could to keep him away from the encroaching technological modernity, she failed, inevitably, when the war came around. She died in the Third Blitz, a cruise missile aimed at London flattened their village. He missed her. Cassi understood.
One day, as they were sitting, reading, a familiar clickety-clack came towards them over the stone flooring. The Spaniard floated over, rasping as he went. He held in his many hands a silver arm. It was beautiful, thoroughly engraved with a gilt floral motif. The forearm looked vaguely familiar.
“Calvohhh imporrroooveehh, thannkkk Castorrrrr for ssavving viddahh.”
“I didn’t do anything special, Cal.”
“Doess nottt matterrrr, Goddhh seeee accttioonn, actionnn over wordddddhhh.”
He handed the arm to Cassiopea, who helped Castor slot it into the new receiver in his shoulder. The feeling returned to his arm, sharper than before, clearer. It felt more responsive and it seemed to move more smoothly. He picked up the copy of Pope’s Works that he’d been half-trying to get through and ran his hand over the pebbled marrocco leather, the little bumps and marks registering with astonishing clarity. It was built on the frame of his old arm and so, said Calvo, had kept its spirit. He explained that it had a few tricks, a knife could be extended from its wrist and fired, for example. It also had improved servo motors, and the fact that the prosthetic worked from his shoulder meant that it could hit harder and faster. Calvo made him swear to never use it to hurt anyone he cared about. Castor obliged and the former priest smiled under his respirator, crossed himself, and floated away - clicking and clacking as he did.
Castor and Cassi went out for dinner that night, a restaurant in Nyon, on the balcony of the Chateaux, overlooking the lake. It was still light, and Mont Blanc and its lesser siblings reflected, mirror-like, off its surface. They talked and smoked and drank and ate. Castor had a steak, of course, Cassi opting for Fillet de Perche, the local specialty. Afterwards, they walked down the steep steps next to the chateaux, arm in arm, to a bar on the lakefront.
It was late now, and the starts and moon had replaced the mountains on the lake’s surface.
“Why is it that whenever I’m with you everything feels so surreal, like its some sort of dream?”
“I know what your dreams are like, and I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
He laughed. “That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.”
Felix took them home not long after. A few hours later they were lying in bed, his new silver arm gently running up and down her side. They didn’t speak, just felt, and watched. Her auburn hair fell over her face an onto her breasts - he brushed it over her ear and kissed her. They fell asleep, entwined in each other’s arms.
***
There was a hushed excitement at the ‘guards breakfast table the next day.
“What’s going on?” asked Castor as he sat down.
Bart leant across the table, and in an exaggerated whisper said: “A pack’s been spotted just over the border, wide open plain, about 100 shamblers and a a couple of APCs, out of ammo. Rickard’s gone to ask the boss Lady if we can go hunting.”
Castor was familiar with the term. During his regrettable tenure with James Tilray he oversaw a number of ‘expeditions’, usually just a few psychotic bipedals, easy pickings for an aristo who thought himself a good shot. Without any air cover the drones were fundamentally helpless, their warped programming and detachment from their AI master rendered them rudderless. But he’d never been with a party of ‘guards, and a hundred was no joke. Rickard entered with a sombre look on his face, and the room quietened down. He walked over to the head of the table, and sat down with a thud. He looked at everyone, deadly serious, before letting out a room-shaking laugh.
“She okayed it!”
A cheer erupted around the room. Calvo seemed particularly excited, his many arms chittering and snapping at the air, Felix too, looked ecstatic.
Ana leant over, “A chance for him to try out some new toys, and Felix gets to do some showy flying.” She winked at him.
Once they’d eaten they all excitedly split, some talking amongst themselves, discussing tactics, weapons.
“Like kids in a candy store,” said Castor to himself, smiling.
“Aye, except these kids have access to high-powered weaponry,” boomed Rickard with a hearty slap to Castor’s back.
Fiadh came up to Castor and Bart, a big grin on her face, “Come with me boyos, them peashooters ain’t gonna cut it for this.” She lead them to a space near the range, and through a key-pad locked door. A gunroom, filled with rifles presented itself to them.
“Pick what ye like,” she said, beaming.
They paced around the room, and both chose a rifle. Bart, a large lever action chambered in .375 Magnum, and Castor, a semi-auto Ruger, a modernisation of the Mini-14, chambered in .338 Win-Mag. As they walked out with their rifle cases, they witnessed Calvo leading a procession of servants, all lugging huge reinforced cases. He was chattering and clicking to himself as he walked. Castor couldn’t help but laugh.
They assembled by the aircar port, which was at that point a hive of chatter and excitement. Felix and three other pilots huddled and discussed flight plans along side their aircraft – three militarised aircars with large sliding side doors, and one smaller vehicle, clearly there as support. Castor noted the pylon-mounted missile racks. No wonder they’re so excited.
They separated into teams, each meant to support each other during the hunt. Castor watched with a bemused look as Rickard walked by with an enormous recoilless rifle and ammunition case under his arms. Castor was grouped with Hiji, Ana, and Bart. Ana carried her shotgun. She had attached an ACOG to it.
“What the fuck kinda nurse uses a shotgun on a long-range hunt?” asked Bart laughing.
“The kind that uses explosive slugs,” she shot back.
The flight over the French border took only 30 minutes, the aircars side-by side, doors open.
“5 minutes, pack sighted.” Some of Calvo’s wasps had gone ahead, and were feeding video data to screens inside the compartments of the aircars. The rest of his drones, large, gun armed quadrotors, flew alongside the aircars.
“Two tanks, bad intel.” Felix sounded excited as he said this, and Castor knew why. A volley of missiles erupted from his aircar, and flew off ahead of them.
A minute later, “Impact! Scratch the heavy armour, you guy’s turn.”
The aircars split and began circling the mass of bipedal drones. The began opening fire. Those with high powered rifles hung them on slings and took shots from the open doors. Ana sat next to Bart, gleefully unloading her shotgun into the mass of metal below, each shot followed by a pop as the explosive shells went off. A loud bang and smoke trail wound its way to one of the APCs. Castor could hear a booming laugh from the aircar it came from. Hiji sat next to Castor watching. Castor had meant to ask, but had held off until then.
“WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO, HIJI, WHERE’S YOUR GUN,” Castor yelled over the racket the aircars were producing.
“I’M WAITING FOR THE ARMOR TO BE GONE,” he yelled back, a smile on his face.
The last APC exploded in a cloud of smoke and debris. Hiji smiled at Castor, slapped his shoulder, and jumped out of the aircar.
“Jap’s out, watch your fire,” Fiadh said through the comms link. He landed with a roll at a distance from the pack, his leg augments absorbing the impact. Immediately a group peeled off and began running at him. He cut into them with ease, shifting from target to targe with an unnatural fluidity. Castor and the others focused on the main group. There was an almost sadistic pleasure being taken by the group in dispatching the aimless drones. Revenge for years of torment, perhaps. But none of them felt bad. Fuck ‘em.
[Art produced by me on Midjourney. Finding fiddling with it after writing to be a nice reward. The irony of using AI to produce illustations for this is not lost on me :)
Hope you’ve enjoyed. Very busy next week so no Part 8 for a while.]