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BY HUNTER’S ESTIMATION, the ril-galas airship had hung around Balmoral Castle for just over six hours before heading off. Ransom said it had headed north and Hunter had learned to trust the girl’s sense of direction. Several of the two groups – Hunter’s own team and the Coldstream Guards – speculated that the airship was heading to Inverness, but all that mattered was that it was leaving.
In what used to be the wine room, Hunter checked through the supplies Hobson and his team had hoarded. It was an impressive stash that included a generous supply of canned food and military rations, plenty of first aid kits, antibiotics and painkillers, and an entire rack of spare weapons – from the advanced 33A1 assault rifles and Trondheim Arms T19 semiautomatic pistols to antique bolt-action rifles and even swords. Beside the weapons rack sat three buckets filled to the brim with spare magazines.
Picking up a T19, Hunter held the pistol at arm’s length, testing the weight and balance.
"We had just received those at the barracks," said Hobson. "They’re brand new – the latest and greatest from Trondheim."
Hunter popped out the mag, then slid it back in. It was the first pistol design by Trondheim Arms in which the magazine was located in front of the trigger as opposed to within the grip. Its name came from the fact that its standard magazine carried a total of nineteen rounds.
"Reliable?"
"So far I’ve been impressed," said Hobson, patting the T19 slung on his hip. "I haven’t had a misfire yet."
"Would you mind if I kept one?"
"Help yourself. You might want to think about leaving your Caliburn behind," he said, nodding to the submachine gun slung across her chest. "Unless you have more spare magazines. We don’t have any that would be compatible."
Nodding, she set aside the Caliburn and selected a 33A1 – like the ones the Coldstream Guards carried and like the ones she’d seen carried by the Rangers aboard the Vimy Ridge.
As the rest of the team members, hers and Hobson’s alike, began filtering in, Hunter stood aside while Hobson and Ransom offered suggestions to everyone as to what supplies they should be adding to their large backpacks. The pair were trying to ensure that every member of the amalgamated team was carrying a balance of supplies. A practical aim, to be sure. If one member were to be lost, the remaining team would still have a balanced reserve.
After packing was complete, Ransom and Grieve were sent above and returned thirty minutes later with the all-clear. The ril-galas were nowhere to be seen.
A light rain began to fall shortly after the group left Balmoral Castle, all but the scouting team of Ransom and Grieve laden down with their heavy supply packs. And of course, the King. He carried nothing but the chip on his shoulder. Before departing the castle, Hunter had selected a sword for him - an old sword, but in excellent condition. Though she knew nothing about swords, she’d chosen one that she felt looked passably regal without looking ostentatious. An attempt to further connect this boy-king with his legendary namesake, she'd set the weapon aside almost immediately. A grand idea, perhaps, that would have carried some impressive symbolism once they reached Edinburgh, but hardly practical. The sword was heavy and of questionable efficacy against the ril-galas. A grand idea, but deadweight. And, she thought as she watched the young Royal sulk through the rain, an idea that would very likely have failed.
Pradesh and Fairbairn were chatting amongst themselves, as usual. One of Hobson’s men – Wiggins – had taken point and Hutch had fallen in just behind him. Hobson, Tombs and the two remaining Coldstream Guards, Kaur and Ellis, stuck close to Arthur while Williams brought up the rear, grumbling the whole time.
Keeping the River Dee to their right, they made slow, but steady progress, despite the worsening rain. They’d been walking for just over three hours when Hunter saw Ransom crouched under a tree and the girl waved her over.
"Problem?"
"Not of the shooting variety, but yeah," said Random, pulling her wool hat – her toque as she called it – lower over her ears and pointing to the Western sky. "Check out those clouds."
It was mid-afternoon, but to the West, the sky was as black as night. As Hunter watched, a bolt of lightning snaked through the clouds.
"We should find shelter," said Ransom. "I don’t think we want to be walking in that."
"I agree."
"There’s a castle up ahead, a small one. Braemar. It looks to be mostly intact, but Grieve has gone for a closer look. We could hunker down there until the storm blows through?"
"Assuming Grieve is comfortable with it as well, I see no reason to disagree. I’ll speak with Hobson."
"I’ll go up ahead with Grieve," said Ransom, standing and pulling her jacket a little tighter.
As she headed off, Hunter turned back to the group. They were moving even slower than before, with Hobson having to cajole both Arthur and Williams into keeping their feet moving. As she caught his eye, he moved and fell into step beside her.
"There appears to be a storm front moving in," he said.
"That’s what I wanted to speak with you about. Ransom and Grieve have found a small castle up ahead. They’re checking now to make sure it’s safe, but assuming it is we’re going to take shelter there until the storm passes."
He nodded.
"I think His Majesty would endorse that course of action."
Hunter glanced at the King. He was, again, scowling and stomping through the grass, shoulders slumped miserably.
Clenching her jaw, Hunter forced herself to look away.
"I think your King would endorse any course of action that would allow him to sit and sulk."
Hobson stiffened slightly, but said nothing.
"Or stare at Ransom’s ass," said Hunter, shaking her head. "He spends a surprising amount of time thinking... looking at it."
"Royal or not, he’s a teenaged boy," said Hobson. "Crowns and crises cannot destroy the hormones of the teenage boy."
Waving everyone in, Hunter and Hobson had the group huddle under tree cover while they waited for Grieve and Ransom to report back. It was a great relief to all when they did, and announced that everything was clear. Within twenty minutes, the entire group was through the castle’s curtain wall and into the main structure and very happily dropping their heavy packs onto the floor of the stone-vaulted kitchen.
"I will pay all kinds of money I don’t have," said Tombs, pointing to the big stone fireplace. "If someone can start a fire."
"Won’t the aliens see the smoke?" said Williams, looking worried.
Hutch looked at the pilot and rolled his eyes.
"The entire world is on fire, shithead."
"Enough," said Hunter. "Ransom, a small fire would be nice."
The girl nodded and set to work. Hunter didn’t know what Braemar Castle had been used for in recent years, but the kitchen was stocked with enough iron pots and utensils that soon after Ransom got the fire going, others were warming up beans and Hobson even had a pot of tea steeping.
"A very British thing, that," he said, nodding to the teapot. "Wars come and wars go, but there is always time for a cup of tea."
"What are we fighting for if not our freedom to drink tea in peace?" said Ransom with a small giggle.
"To not be eaten," said Hutch.
There was an understandably awkward silence. Everyone knew now what the ril-galas were doing with their human captives. Everyone knew that the ‘processing plants’ set up in various locations across the globe were really slaughterhouses and rendering plants, turning humanity into a food source and anyone who doubted the stories need only look at the piles of discarded bones outside the plants. The ril-galas had made no effort to disguise what they were doing, but somehow, even on Earth, many people had been able to simply forget it. To forget what would happen to them if they were captured by the enemy.
"Hutch, you’re a ray of fucking sunshine, you know that?" said Ransom.
Leaving them to their hopefully good-natured bickering, Hunter poured tea into two chipped ceramic mugs and sat down cross-legged on the floor across from Arthur. The King of Britain had selected the corner farthest from everyone else in which to sit.
As she joined him, Hunter caught an image of Ransom that was floating through his mind.
"Stop it," she said.
He looked up at her, giving her a look that someone might give the sticky substance they’ve just scraped of their boot. A look that says they aren’t sure what it is, but that it’s caused them some annoyance regardless.
"Stop what?"
"Those thoughts you’re having about Ransom."
"I don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave me alone."
"No," she said, handing him a mug of tea and being surprised when he accepted it.
"Why not?"
"Because you’re the King of Britain, which means you don’t have the luxury of being left alone."
"I don’t want to be the King. My brother was supposed to be King."
"The way I understand it, no one particularly wants you to be King," said Hunter, sipping her tea. "But your brother is dead and so we’re left with you. Lucky us."
A very graphic image of her flitted across his mind.
"There are some men I would be more than willing to do that with," she said. "But you are not one of them."
The King of Britain stared at her, eyes wide, mouth agape.
"There’s something you should know about me, Your Highness," she said quietly, leaning forward. "I can read minds. I can see that every single thought in your head revolves around the concept of ‘me.’ And I am telling you right now that that will change. You will start thinking of the greater implications of what’s happening with Planet Earth."
"Why should I? It’s not like any of it is going to matter. The aliens are just going to get us eventually."
"You are a shitty King."
"Fuck off."
"Grow up, you selfish little shit. Good people are putting themselves in harm’s way to keep you alive," she said, standing. "Look at them."
She pointed over to where the rest of their little group sat around the fire. Grieve was singing, Hobson playing an overturned cooking pot like a snare drum.
Hark now the drums beat up again
For all true soldiers gentlemen
Who stand and fight both night and day
Over the hills and far away
Over the hills and o'er the main,
To Flanders, Portugal and Spain,
The King commands and we'll obey
Over the hills and far away.
"If any of these people die because of your apathy, it will not end well for you," she said. "Your people need you to stand up and be visible. They need a symbol."
"Then you do it."
"What do you think I’ve been doing while you’ve been cowering in a basement for the last year and a half?"
`Gainst ril-galas on hill and field,
The Black Watch men shall never yield,
Fight until the end will they,
Over the hills and far away
Over the hills and o'er the main,
To Flanders, Portugal and Spain,
The King commands and we'll obey
Over the hills and far away.
"These lives we’re leading may be short," she said. "But that gives us all the more reason to make them actually mean something."
That very realisation had hit her quite hard some eighteen months prior and had led her to turn her shuttle around, to rather than make a run for freedom, drive straight into the belly of the beast. She was, she discovered quite suddenly, very proud of it.
The Coldstream at our side will be,
To march with us to victory,
And peaceful in our beds we’ll lay,
Over the hills and far away.
Over the hills and o'er the main,
To Flanders, Portugal and Spain,
The King commands and we'll obey
Over the hills and far away.
"Think about it, Your Highness."
Without waiting for a response – and not really expecting one – Hunter walked away and rejoined the group. There was a mild cheer as she sat down and was handed the communal pot of beans that was being passed around. She noticed a strange grin on Grieve’s face as he continued singing.
Now Hunter there is no silly lass,
I tell ya boys, she’ll kick your ass,
From here until enterni-tay,
Over the hills and far away!
Everyone laughed. It felt good to laugh, to forget the seriousness of their situation, if only for a few minutes. The moments of levity were always too brief.
At first, Hunter had mistaken the quiet buzzing of thoughts she felt at the edge of her awareness as those of petulant royalty and paid them no mind. They weren’t the alien touch of ril-galas minds, which were always enough to make a chill run down her spine and grab her full attention. It was only when she caught an image of armed humans creeping slowly through the curtain wall and toward the castle entrance that she realized something was amiss.
Standing, she drew her sidearm.
Without a word, Hobson was at her side, assault rifle in hand, giving her a questioning look.
But it was too late. Two men burst through the door, one armed with a hunting rifle and the other with the bulky TA204 – the assault rifle that had been the Commonwealth Army standard issue until the 33A1 had been developed.
"Nobody moves!" yelled the one with the hunting rifle.
Two more people came in behind them, a man and a woman, both armed with pistols. Hunter could sense there were two more still outside standing as a rear guard.
"We’re all human," said Hunter. "There’s no need-."
"Shut up! Tell me what you’re doing here!"
"Shall I shut up or shall I tell you what we’re doing here?"
"Don’t fucking test me, lady."
"We’re just here for shelter until the storm passes."
"Not anymore you’re not," said the rifleman. "Leave all your supplies and get out."
"We should take them prisoner," said the man with the assault rifle.
The rifleman thought about it for a second and nodded and in his simple mind, Hunter saw clearly what they had in mind for her and Ransom, but also what they had in mind for the rest of the group. She saw flashes, a jumble of images. Other captives. Forced marches at gunpoint. Ril-galas processing plants. Some kind of sleek ril-galas she had never seen before handing the rifleman some kind of device—a bracelet? And the rifleman and his people walking away unharmed. A deal had been struck for the group’s own continued survival.
"Leave now and you leave in peace," she said quietly.
The rifleman just laughed and Hunter decided then that she would kill him, one way or another.
"Now listen," said Williams, standing. "This is ridiculous – we have plenty of supplies to share, we can-."
His offer of assistance was cut off as two bullets hammered into his chest and he dropped to the stone floor. The woman with the pistol who had fired the shots kept her gun raised and pointed it toward Tombs, who happened to be sitting beside Williams.
"Anyone else?"
"These people are selling out their own kind to the ril-galas," said Hunter. "That’s what they do with most of their captives. They trade them in so they can get some kind of protection from the enemy."
She noticed that all three wore some kind of band around their wrist, the same as she had seen in the flashes of memory – probably a way for the ril-galas to identify them.
The attackers at least had the decency to look uncomfortable that their secret had been revealed.
And then the woman with the pistol put a bullet in Tombs’s head.
"Shut up and follow fucking orders," she said.
Hunter stared coldly into the woman's eyes and began concentrating very hard. The process was an incredibly difficult one and the effort it required was enormous. She could already feel the headache starting and wouldn’t have been at all surprised if she ended up with a nose bleed at the end of it, but she forced her mind into that of the pistol-wielding woman – whose name she now understood to be Mary Sheehan, an Irishwoman who had been a school teacher before the world ended – and drove deep like a dagger into the very centre of the woman’s mind.
Mary simply stared back, her eyes widening with each passing nanosecond as Hunter fed images into her mind. Images of things Hunter had seen while with Radko, images she’d seen piped through from Sigurdsson on Von Daniken’s Landing, things she’d seen while on Earth and, most importantly, forcing in both her pride at how the survivors at Edinburgh Castle had banded together to help each other and her absolute revulsion at what Mary and her group had been doing to survive.
And then she began to twist and pull.
The human mind could be a fragile thing, especially when already compromised by fear.
Mary slowly raised her pistol, face twitching slightly, and placed the muzzle against her own temple.
"Mary? The fuck are you doing?" said the rifleman.
Saying nothing, Mary pulled the trigger, splattering brain matter and skull fragments across the wall.
Hunter staggered slightly as if a massive weight had suddenly been removed from her shoulders and Ransom reached out to steady her. The feeling passed in a second, but the headache, as expected, remained.
Two more shots rang out in quick succession and the man with the assault rifle dropped to the ground.
"Set your weapons on the floor," said Hobson calmly, a thin wisp of smoke curling from the barrel of his rifle as he aimed it at the remaining intruders. Wiggins and Hutch were at his side in an instant, both training their weapons on the men.
In the fog that followed such an exertion of her abilities, Hunter had allowed her guard to drop. She hadn’t sensed the other two men that came barging through the door, firing pistols.
The first bullet hit her square in the chest and the second in the ribs as she fell.
Before she blacked out, she saw an arrow impale the rifleman’s throat and heard the loud boom of Hutch’s shotgun as half of another attacker’s head disappeared in a coarse red mist.