| |
THE RIL-GALAS ATTACK had been disorganized and consisted of only a small number of foot soldiers, which concerned Hunter. Odds were that it was a simple scouting party, but if that were the case, she worried that a larger attack force was nearby and would come looking once the absence of the scouting party was noticed.
The crossfire from those still alive within Balmoral Castle had allowed Hunter and her team to move into the shelter of the castle’s broken front wall, but several ril-galas remained.
Without being directed to do so, Grieve set up a sniper position low to the ground, where a hole in the wall’s brickwork allowed him a reasonable line of sight. Ransom knelt beside him as his spotter, provider of cover fire and, Hunter knew, bait if need be. The two former police officers took turns breaking cover, while Williams the pilot simply stayed behind the wall. Though he was armed with a standard sidearm, the pilot seemed to be useless outside the cockpit. She hoped she’d be proven wrong, but it was looking like Williams would become a liability.
There was a loud, cracking boom as Hutch fired his high-powered shotgun.
Hutch was a wildcard, Hunter knew. He’d come north from Sheffield after the fall of London and while his knowledge of weapons and improvised explosive devices had been of great help to the resistance, everyone knew he had not served in the military and no one wanted to ask, then, how he came by his skills. Hunter had seen small glimpses in his thoughts as they flickered by – police, prisons, even an anarchist rally or two – but she had never asked him about his past and never delved into his mind for details. Considering where she herself had come from, literally and figuratively, she understood the role a major crisis could play in reinventing oneself. The last thing she would want for herself was for someone to judge her based on her pre-invasion life as opposed to the person she’d been in the months since. She had decided long ago that she would not pry into the lives of those with whom she fought, either by asking them questions or by probing into their minds.
But she didn’t need to enter his mind to know that Hutch was an incredibly angry man. Hostility came off him in waves and she was thankful that for now he could pour it out into the ril-galas.
If they ever drove the aliens off Earth, Hunter worried where and how Hutch would channel his anger.
"One left," she heard Ransom say, shortly after Grieve’s rifle barked and then, after a heavy fusillade from the as-yet-unseen defenders of Balmoral, she shrugged and spoke again. "And done. Hold for confirmation."
Pulling out a small pair of binoculars, Ransom climbed atop a pile of rubble and scanned the battlefield. As she lowered the binoculars, the girl made a whistling noise that sounded identical to the calls made by one of the many types of bird that now nested at Edinburgh Castle. One of Ransom's talents, she recalled Grieve saying before the mission: if she could hear it, she could mimic it.
Ransom caught Hunter’s eye and nodded.
"All clear, boss."
With a nod, Hunter signalled her team to regroup and began to lead them toward an opening in the castle wall. It may have been where a door once stood, but it was hard to tell.
The small group hadn’t made it ten feet before a shot was fired into the ground in front of them, stopping them short.
"Halt! Identify yourself and state your intentions!"
A middle-aged man stood in the doorway, armed with a Trondheim Arms 33A1 assault rifle. He wore a military uniform of some sort, his coat a bright red with a black collar and a white belt. He was surprisingly neat and clean for someone holed up in a half-demolished castle.
Hutch tensed to attack, but Hunter held out a hand, stopping him. No one could see into the castle, but she could tell there were other shooters drawing aim on her group.
"My name is Hunter," she said. "We’re from the garrison holding Edinburgh Castle."
"You don’t sound Scottish."
"Neither do you, yet we seem to both find ourselves in Scotland regardless," she said, spreading her arms dramatically and looking at their surroundings.
"Coldstream Guards, yeah? Number Seven Company," said Grieve.
The man in the uniform hesitated, then nodded.
"Aye. Corporal Walter Hobson, Coldstream Guards."
"Sergeant Douglas Grieve, retired. Third Battalion, Royal Regiment of Scotland."
"The Black Watch," said Hobson, straightening slightly. "I’m honoured, Sergeant. And glad to see a fellow soldier still in the fight."
Even with her ability to sense thoughts, the sudden change in Hobson’s demeanour left Hunter confused. Obviously sensing it, Hutch leaned in and spoke quietly.
"The Black Watch and the Coldstream Guards are the two oldest regiments in Commonwealth history," he said. "They actually pre-date the Commonwealth."
Hunter nodded, thankful for the information.
"Corporal Hobson, we’re here to help," she said. "I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d ask your shooters to stand down."
"I don’t know what you mean, Ms. Hunter."
"It’s just Hunter. And yes you do. You have a man with a hunting rifle in the second story window to my right – targeting me right now, as a matter of fact – and four others armed with various weapons currently redeploying to get better shooting position against us."
"She’s always right about this stuff," said Hutch. "Creeps the shit out of me, but she’s always right."
"I’m going to ask you again to state your intentions," said Hobson, clearly uncomfortable.
"The Restoration," said Grieve.
"Beg pardon?"
"After the bastard Cromwell," said Grieve, spitting onto the fallen bricks at the mention of the name. "When his bullshit Protectorate failed and Charles II was restored to the throne, we called it The Restoration."
"That was in the seventeenth century, Sergeant," said Hobson.
"And now, with everything having fallen apart, we aim to do it again. Restore the monarchy."
Frequently, Hunter didn’t need to use her abilities to know what people were thinking or feeling. The slight hesitation and the millimetre drop in the barrel of Hobson’s rifle told her that MacDowall had been right – the heir to the throne was inside Balmoral Castle. And he was being guarded by one or more highly trained members of the Coldstream Guards.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about," the Sergeant said stubbornly, making it even more obvious he knew exactly what they were talking about.
"Let’s pretend for a moment that any of us believes that," said Hunter. "And let’s think practically. Your castle is crumbling. The ril-galas will be back and be back in force. You have, what, seven men? How many of them as well-trained as you? I’ll say three."
He just stared, clenching his jaw, so she continued.
"We have Edinburgh Castle. Its walls are intact, its cliffs too steep for the ril-galas to scale. We are well-defended, well supplied and of our active combatants, over half have either military or police training."
It was an exaggeration, but Hobson couldn't know that.
"What does that have to do with us?"
"Seriously?" said Hutch, with an exasperated sigh. "Are you fucking daft, man? She’s offering you a safe place where there will be a whole lot of other people to help you protect your little boy-king."
Though it may have been better delivered without the heaping dose of scorn, the message was received.
"Which sounds lovely in theory," said Hobson. "But how do we know we can trust you?"
Hutch turned back to Hunter.
"This was a waste of time and resources. Just let them-."
"Shush!" said Ransom, suddenly alert and looking out toward the treeline.
A sharp look from Hunter killed the retort forming on Hutch’s lips and in the resulting silence, they all heard what had caught Ransom’s attention: the unmistakable droning of the large ril-galas airships, the ones that would deploy the deadly flying creatures identified by the Fort Hathaway garrison as 'bats.' All spikes and blades and wings, a bat could tear a human – even a human in body armour – to shreds in an instant.
The reaction of the Coldstream Guard was instant and decisive.
"Everyone inside," he said, lowering his weapon and waving for Hunter and her group to follow.
With a nod, Hunter took up position on one side of the door and Hobson on the other, both keeping watch on the skies while everyone entered the castle. They could just make out the airship in the distance when they ducked inside.
"That’s Wiggins," said Hobson, pointing to a much younger man wearing a similar but far dirtier uniform. "Follow him."
Wiggins led them to a spiral staircase and down into a basement that even in its damaged state was impressive. To her left, Hunter saw what looked like a movie theatre and to her right...
"Is that a pool?"
"Yeah," said Wiggins, not pausing, heading straight into the room with the long rectangular pool.
At one end of the pool, another Coldstream Guard stood, rifle in her hands, watching over a despondent-looking teenage boy who sat cross-legged at the edge of the pool, tossing bits of rubble and watching the splashes and ripples.
"What’s going on?" she demanded.
"Flying things coming in for another go," said Wiggins. "Don’t worry Tombs, these are friends."
Tombs grunted but didn’t relax her stance in the least.
It was at that moment that Hobson entered the pool area, three others behind him. His left arm was soaked in blood.
"Henderson is dead," he said, and all of his team swore softly. "They’re giving us quite a beating up there. It looks like we may have no choice but to take you up on your offer, Hunter."
"It’s a sound tactical decision, Corporal," she said.
"Of course, we need to actually reach Edinburgh for it to matter," he said. "Your helicopter is down and we’d be far too conspicuous on the open road."
"We have a couple lorries," added Wiggins. "But not enough space for all of us to go."
Hutch shook his head.
"Trucks aren't fast enough, agile enough, or quiet enough."
"The river," said Ransom, squatting beside the pool, swishing her hand in the cool water. "We can follow the river. River Dee to Clunie Water. We’d need to follow Old Military Road for a little bit, but then we can pick up more rivers. Get to the River Tay and it’ll take us to the coast. Follow the coastline around St. Andrews and Kirkcaldy and we’ll reach Forth Road Bridge. March straight in to Edinburgh."
"Once we get across that bridge it’s only about a four hour walk to the castle," said Grieve.
"But how long a walk to follow all those rivers and coastlines and actually reach the bridge?" asked Pradesh.
Ransom puffed out her cheeks as she blew out a breath.
"Probably four days? Assuming we don’t need to hole up anywhere for any length of time."
"Wait, walking for four days?" said Williams. "Four days trying to avoid ril-galas patrols? What do we eat? Where do we sleep?"
"We have plenty of supplies here," said Hobson. "We can each fill a pack."
"And we sleep under the stars," said Grieve, with a surprisingly cheerful smile.
"You’re right, Hunter – our walls here won’t hold out much longer and we don’t have the manpower to keep this up," said Hobson, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. "Once the ril-galas airship moves on, so do we. We stick to the rivers like..."
"Ransom."
"Like Ransom suggests. Does anyone disagree?"
There were one or two skeptical looks, but no one spoke up.
"Good," he said. "Now, I believe I should introduce you to the person we’re all here for."
He turned toward the boy sitting at the edge of the pool and saluted. The rest of the Coldstream Guards followed suit.
"His Royal Highness King Arthur II, King of Britain, Co-Regent of the Commonwealth. Your Majesty, I’m pleased to present Hunter, a new ally."
The boy looked up sullenly from beneath an untidy mop of blonde hair.
"Fuck off."