Obsidian's War The Winter City
Chapter Seven

The second party that Theo dragged Gel to was a step or so above the previous event in that it was a little further away from Five Ways and nobody actively sneered at Gel as a “uni”. So far so good. After making Theo promise that he would keep his pants on at least until they left the party, Gel wandered around, beer in hand, to replace Even sitting on a tattered couch in one of the house’s common areas. This time she was wearing a green halter top that had too much material to be classified as a bikini, but not much more, and jeans. Sitting next to her on the couch was a very pretty, younger girl in jeans and a sleeveless shirt. Both were holding glasses half filled with what Gel suspected was soft drink.

“You!” Even said, accusingly as he emerged from the crowd.

“It’s me,” agreed Gel. He saw no point in denying it.

“I wondered if Theo was going to get you here so you could meet Hestia… Hestia,” she said to the pretty girl, “Gel here arranged for Gillian to rescue you.”

“Oh right,” said Hestia. Her voice was debutant standard, without any of the Five Ways drawl that occasionally showed in Even’s voice. But with her Elvin face, high cheekbones and blue eyes, men would hang on her every word no matter what she said. “Thanks so much for all that, Gillian was really great.”

“Gillian called to ask me if I’d had anything to do with Hestia,” said Gel. “I said I didn’t know any Hestia. Then when I worked out who you were, she told me I wasn’t allowed to have anything to do with you at all, as you were underaged and way too good looking.”

“Even told me,” said Hestia, laughing. “That wasn’t fair. You hadn’t met me.”

“What’s not fair,” retorted Gel, “is that I had to pay for that advice.” Gel had been sent an itemised bill which included fifteen minutes of time described as, ‘counselling Gellibrand Obsidian to be cautious in his dealings with client’. “I don’t think she trusts me.”

Hestia laughed.

“You poor thing,” said Even, “being made to pay to be told to stay away from someone you hadn’t met. Did Gillian also warn you off me?”

“No, but I didn’t tell her about Boris. Otherwise, I might have to pay more to be told about a danger I can see for myself.”

“Ha!” said Even.

“I will court a little danger to say that Hestia here really rocks the sleeveless shirt look – even better than her sister’s green halter top thing, which is saying a lot.”

Hestia laughed again.

“But don’t tell Gillian I said that,” said Gel, “or I’ll cop another blast on the clock.”

“You’re just full of it, Obsidian,” said Even, amused, “even if there is a certain charm to your shit. But speaking of Gillian what’s happening with her and the baby?”

“All moving along, but last I heard she’d given up trying to organise a wedding before she starts to show. She doesn’t want to float down the aisle in the perfect wedding dress obviously pregnant. Now she’s aiming for after the birth and hoping the baby sleeps through the ceremony.”

“Baby bumps and wedding dresses just don’t go together,” agreed Even. “But where is your friend? She never seems to be with you.”

“I’m going to meet Heather later.”

Even, who was about to take another sip of her own drink, stopped and looked sharply at Gel.

“Hello again,” said a voice behind them. It was Boris with his blonde hair, killer eyes and shark-like grin.

“Even was just getting through telling me that if I so much as looked at Hestia sideways in the wrong way,” said Gel. “She would splatter my guts all over the carpet and then get you to dispose of the body.”

“Oh, that speech,” said Boris, amiably, flashing his shark-smile. “Sounds like you got the mild version.”

While Gel and Boris talked, Hestia leaned forward and said quietly. “He’s reeeallllly nice. If Boris is stepping out on you, then he’d be a trade up – that is if he didn’t have a girlfriend.”

“Like anyone else interesting he won’t come near me because of Boris,” said Even. “But I’m going to ask him about that girlfriend. If he thinks I’m trouble, he may be in real hurt with her.”

***

Gel’s group had left the transport in favour of the building to look for blood stains when the Colonel called on the comms link.

“You’ve found bodies, Lieutenant?” she said.

“Yes ma’am,” said Gel. “One guardsman and the pilot and we are sure that at least someone else was wounded, probably seriously. We’re checking for blood trails, trying to work out where they might have gone.”

“This unauthorised activity is causing ructions. General Sims has hit the roof. Have you any idea why they’ve gone off on their own.”

“I believe it’s something to do with Dr Addanc looking for what amounts to a Gagrim mind transplant site.” Colonel Lee was silent for a moment. “The existence of the Gagrim is classified, Lieutenant.”

“Ma’am I found one of the sites on Outpost-3,” protested Gel. “And most of the people here were with me when we found it. We can hardly forget what we found out.”

“Oh right, this was why your company got into such trouble?” said Lee, mollified.

“Trouble as in almost all killed, yes ma’am,” said Gel.

“Anyway, it’s something to do with one of those sites. How do you know this? And where is this site?”

“One of my party suggested we talk to Captain Edge’s – um – assistant.”

“The blonde squad leader?”

“Yes, ma’am. She didn’t know much but she knew that they were going for the Temple district and going deep and that Addanc was talking about a place where they store brains.”

“Okay,” said the colonel. “All this can be reported to the General but the main reason for this call is to tell you that the General has authorised a continuous overwatch of Raptor N20 missiles on a launch platform. You’ve got fire support, in other words. I’ve passed control over to Hartmann.”

“Yes, ma’am, thank you ma’am,” said Gel. As most of the city was below ground, Gel was not sure just how much use the missiles would be, but it was certainly better than not having them.

“In the meantime, I’ll have the MPs search Dr Addanc’s and Captain Edge’s quarters for clues and bring in that assistant for further questioning,” she said. “Keep up the good work, replace those missing soldiers and, oh yes, if Dr Addanc is with them that would be good too.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Next on the line was Hartmann. “Weather’s cleared enough to get infrared traces around the checkpoint you wiped out, Skip. Someone’s taking an interest.”

“Hoodies?”

“Looked at maximum mag and all I can tell is that there are warm bodies there.”

“Anything on the road to here.”

“Nothing I can see but they look now to be moving along the road.”

“Okay – time to move out people.”

Dawlish had been checking the building for indications about where the missing party had got to.

“Shell casings here where they came in, Skip,” she said, “but no where else that I can see. There is a blood spot here by this window on the opposite side, and the snow looks more beat down than elsewhere.”

With clouds obscuring the stars nothing was visible with the human eye, but after switching on his visor’s light magnification option, Gel thought he could see the buildings of the Temple business district. Several of these were a whole four storeys high, skyscrapers by Jasper standards. That was a good a direction as any in which to head, and there was no reason to linger.

“Remember, guys, we’re just a Hoodie patrol. Do not try to sneak around or hurry – take it slow and calm, like we’re meant to be here.”

They moved on in silence, but with Hartmann giving a running commentary of the force somewhere in their rear to Gel.

“They’ve gotten to the transport. Some milling around.. might be a hundred and more.”

“A hundred!” said Gel. “That sounds like trouble. Good idea if they don’t replace us.”

They reached the edge of the business district. All the avenues and building entrance courts were covered by snow so that the buildings seeming to stick straight out of that white covering. They began checking for blood traces and tracks. There was nothing in the first building, or the second. They did not see anyone else.

“Lot of ground to cover, Skip,” said Theo.

“Maybe we should check the underground galleries,” said Dawlish.

“Out of the cold sounds good,” said Alyssa.

“When you can’t feel your toes, that’s when it’s time to get warm,” said Parkinson.

Cliffe, as usual, scanned their surroundings and said nothing.

Gel was just about to order a move underground when a shot was fired a block or so up the main avenue they were on. More shots followed, then a burst from a storm cannon followed by silence.

“Sounds like our guys,” said Theo.

“Move out, slowly along the street,” ordered Gel. “No hurrying and be careful. If our guys are up there, they’ll also think we’re a Hoddie patrol.”

“That big force not far behind you, Skip,” said Hartmann after a couple of minutes.

“Theo, check out that building,” said Gel pointing to one of the four-storey skyscrapers to their right.

The display windows of this once grand building had been blown out long ago, the fine plaza was covered in snow drifts and there were two frozen, snow-covered bodies in front of the reception counter. Gel’s group hid in various nooks and crannies and watched on infrared as the large band of Hoodies filed past. Just as the file seemed to be coming to an end one of the group stopped, indicated two Hoodies, waved them at the building next door, then pointed to two others and waved at Gel’s building. The two Hoodies moved towards them.

“We’ve got company people,” said Gel over comms. “Hoodies are checking out the buildings around what must be a siege.”

“I can take them out in a second,” whispered Parkinson over the comms link. “One burst from the storm.”

“The rest ’d be down on us in a moment,” said Gel. “We wait for the others to pass and then do knives. Theo we’re up.”

“Gotit Skip,” said Theo. “I’ll take the one on the right.”

Gel shifted his position slightly. He was crouched down on the left side of the reception counter, peering around the counter’s edge, as the two Hoodies, still with the hoods that gave their opponents their names pulled right down over their heads, walked up and then stepped through the empty display window frame. All that remained of the transparent plastic that had been in the frame were fragments which crunched under their boots. Then they lifted their hoods and Gel realised they were both wearing combat helmets – helmets with visors down. He could see the heads up display projected directly on the inside of the visor. The helmets were older models but still effective at calling for help if the wearers were not silenced in a breath.

“Helmets, shit!” Gel heard Theo whisper over the comms link. “Right in under visor, Skip, hard with the knife. Don’t give ’em a chance.”

“Control, scans show recent activity,” said Gel’s target, voice muffled by the helmet.

It was a female voice, Gel realised. His target was a woman.

***

After Gel and Boris had swapped pleasantries, Boris asked about the time he and Theo had used knives on Outpost-3.

“Just one each that day,” said Gel. “And I had an assist from one of the squad with a storm cannon distracting mine. But we only got down to knives because I was too close to use the Dart-Gun and our bullets didn’t work on their armour.”

“I heard that,” said Boris, “but knives worked?”

“Depends on the armour, I’m told. A sharp knife can go through bullet proofs, but the Destroyer armour could keep out both. I came in through the arm pit.” Gel gestured at his own arm pit and remembered the Destroyer struggling under him and screaming as his knife sank deep. He was also aware that Even was listening. “Theo went in under the visor.”

“Up close and personal like that leaves too much to chance,” said Boris.

“Yep,” said Gel, “like a lot of our encounters the whole thing was unplanned, and we were lucky. The officer we had died heroically taking two others with him.”

The conversation became more general with other party goers crowding around the couch, including Theo clutching the girl he had been caught with at the first party. When Boris was distracted by another conversation Even stood up close to Gel.

“When you said Heather before, did you mean Heather Barton?” she said.

Gel was taken aback. “Well, yes, I did. Do you know her?”

“Heather worked at the club for a time.”

“Did Heather sing as well?”

“They tried her at that, but she was a terrible singer. They switched her to bar service and that worked, sort of, if she had help with the drinks, but then she got an offer from a weird group.”

“Weird group?” said Gel. “You have my attention.”

“A man and a woman offered me a gig in a black book operation.” (Black book meant top drawer escorts). “High end, they said. I didn’t know what they were talking about at first and when I did, I told them no thanks it wasn’t my scene. But I don’t think Heather said no thanks.”

“It’s how we met,” said Gel. “The first visit was paid for by my ex – fiancée who had an affair.”

“Your fiancée, no way!” exclaimed Even. Hestia looked around at her sister’s exclamation and then returned to her own conversation. She would demand a report later.

“Ex – fiancée. She’s marrying someone else now.”

“Whatever,” said Even, “but you’re not paying to see Heather each time, are you?”

“No, not now.”

“But everyone else with money is?”

“Thanks for pointing that out. The initial arrangement was for convenience. Then I was able to help Heather at a crucial time, and we clicked, I guess, so the arrangement has continued without money.”

“I bet its convenient!” snorted Even. “She’s hot, I admit, but it’s hardly a long term thing. You could do a lot better for yourself.”

A little tired of these comments Gel lent forward. Keeping a mild tone with without smiling he said: “Even, keep your comments about my personal life to yourself.”

The singer saw the mask of the soldier’s easy going persona slip for a moment, sensed the power behind it and opted to back off.

“Just saying,” she said. “You should be complemented.”

“Should I be?” said Gel, smiling again, resuming the mask. “I prefer to keep relationships light at the moment. Apart from going on deployment where people have been trying to kill me, there was also a serious attempt to frame me for murder.”

“What?” said Even. “Who were you supposed to have murdered?”

“Friend of my father’s. I’ll tell you the story another time.”

“Did you kill whoever he was?” said Even, thinking of the change she had seen.

“No – do you really think me capable of murder like that?”

“You were talking about killing people with knives with Boris just before,” she said.

“Fair point, I guess,” said Gel. “But my killing has always been part of military action. Cold blooded killing of someone unarmed and defenceless, that’s different – unless they’re making comments about my personal life.”

“Humph! There are women soldiers. If the soldier was a woman, would you still kill her?”

“She’d be part of a force trying to kill me,” protested Gel. “If she’s going to be part of that force then she should take the same risks as the guys. Equality of the sexes and all that. But knife work is different, I admit. Up close and personal.”

***

At the last moment, realising that the combat helmet was more like a diver’s helmet than one for land combat, Gel reversed his knife so that the butt end was up then rushed forward and slammed it into the woman stomach, just under the rib cage. She folded, the wind knocked out of her. Gel pulled her back to the elevator hall, as she gasped for breath, ripped off the helmet – it had to be twisted and pulled as he had expected, and examined it. He was dimly aware that Theo was grappling with his man who yelled and then gargled. When he looked around, Theo was dragging the man’s limp body into the elevator hall.

“Parkinson see if anyone reacted to the noise,” said Gel.

“Knife didn’t go through under the visor, Skip,” said Theo. “Or the side. Had to go way down and thrust up.”

“They’re wearing a motor bike style divers helmet,” said Gel. “It’s an older Destroyer model, meant to go underwater, and it goes with a short vest that’s harder than most of other armour.”

“Underwater?” said Alyssa as she scanned the woman. She stepped back again. “She’s just winded. Were these guys going underwater?”

“Doubt it, said Gel. “My guess is that the whoever is behind the Hoodies have been picking up whatever suits they could replace second hand. As it happens these second-hand suits are also much more effective at keeping out our style of knife attacks.”

“You let her live,” said Dawlish.

“Knife wouldn’t have gone through so I knocked the wind out of her instead,” said Gel. “Couldn’t give her the chance to call for help. Just as well for us the suits are in protected, non-comm mode to avoid our scanners. That means they may not have heard Theo’s guy – at least not through comms, I hope.”

“No movement our way, Skip,” said Parkinson.

“Arsehole,” the woman Hoodie managed to gasp out, doubled over. She was older, with a touch of grey in auburn hair, perhaps a woman sergeant.

“Dawlish search her and tie her. Tape her mouth, while you’re at it.”

“You’ve got it, Skip.”

“We taking prisoners now, Skip?” said Theo, fingering his knife.

“We’ll let her loose the moment its operational safe to do so which may be in just a few minutes. In the meantime, no-one says anything in front of her.”

A storm of fire erupted from the street two buildings down, or about where they were trying to get to.

“The new force is going to swamp the holdouts,” said Gel. “Behind me, guys, let’s move.”

“How are we going to link up with them now?” asked Parkinson.

Ignoring the question, Gel went back to the display windows and cautiously peeked out through the empty display window frame, to see a lot of gunfire flashes. Infrared scans did not tell him much more about the flashes, but in light amplification mode he could just see another group hunched over, crossing the street as the bullets streamed over their heads.

“Hartmann, time to play with your new toys. Missile strike. You can see where the gunfire is coming from?”

“I can get a range from your suit, Skip,” he said. “Give me a few seconds… there. These things are small compared to the ones we faced back on Outpost-3, so I’ve opted for two. You may want to get back under cover.”

Gel saw two rockets fired from portable launchers like his own Dart-Gun streak across the street and smash into the buildings where the party they were meant to be rescuing had holed up. The sporadic return fire from the building abruptly ceased. The group trying to sneak across the open space raised their heads, coiling up to spring that last few metres.

“Everybody back and down,” said Gel. “When our rockets hit we go out onto the street, guns blazing. Parkinson, you spray the buildings on the other side, Theo and Cliffe, there’s a party trying to sneak across the open ground between the buildings, shoot anyone of that party who doesn’t put his hands up. Dawlish cut our friend’s hands loose and do like Theo and Cliffe.”

“Got it, Skip,” they said.

Then the rockets hit, with two successive ‘whumps’ that shook the ground and sprayed a fresh coat of snow over the buildings they could see. They ran out. It was still pitch black but through the thermal scan on their visors they could see the storming party, scattered over the front of the building they were aiming for, blown there by the shock wave. A couple were shaking their heads as Gel’s group reached them.

Parkinson’s storm cannon chattered briefly but no-one from the buildings on the other side were stirring.

“Salts coming in, guardsmen, don’t fire!” yelled Gel, throwing back his hood. Then said to his own team, “if the Hoodies don’t resist just take their weapons!”

He was aware of Cliffe wrenching an assault weapon from one Hoodie and Theo taking another. A body in front of Gel tried to stand up and raised his assault rifle. It was too close for the Dart-Gun but Gel’s experiences on Outpost-3 had taught him the value of keeping a sidearm – one liberated from the Destroyers on Outpost-3 - in an easy to reach holster. He drew it and shot his opponent through the chest, the bullet going clean through the man’s body armour. Gel thought he saw something unusual under the man’s hood and dragged the body along with him as they rushed through the frame of that building’s display window.

There was little left of the interior. The reception desk and a stair to the next floor was so much twisted metal and shattered plastic with a mangled body of a guardsman behind the desk. An elaborate corporate logo which must have been displayed above the reception desk in better times was lying drunkenly over the rubble.

“Guardsmen! Guardsmen! Salts here.” Gel could hear firing downstairs. “Theo, Cliffe, see what that firing is about. The rest of you keep an eye on the street.”

A form just inside the elevator hall raised his arm weakly. “Here.” He was obviously badly wounded.

“Where are the others?” asked Gel, dropping the body he had dragged in as Alyssa got to work on the guardsman.

“Ivan was just behind reception,” the guardsman said, “but I think that rocket got him. That Sylvester guy is downstairs, holding them off down there. Another at the rear entrance. Heard some firing before. Then there are the wounded and others through there.” He pointed to another door of the hallway.

“Others?” thought Gel. He pushed open the door to replace a room crowded with a wounded guardsmen on a stretcher, another with a bandaged leg propped up against the wall, Dr Addanc, detective senior constable Ben Lewandowski and twelve refugees, men, women, and two children. One of the women was obviously pregnant.

“At last,” said one of the men, “someone who can get us out.”