House of Reeds

The Southbound Express Approaching Parus From the North

A delicate hand jogged sergeant Dawd's knee and he came instantly awake. Mei leaned towards him in the dim compartment, palms on his thighs. The swaying of the train surrounded them with a musty, rattling blanket. The air was hot and close.

"I heard something," she whispered, lifting her chin towards the roof. "Someone is on top of the train."

"Have we just left a station?" Dawd licked his lips, horrified to realize he'd actually fallen asleep. He clutched the Whipsaw, just to make sure the weapon was still in his hands, and carefully cleared the safety.

Mei shook her head, dark eyes wide. Dawd swallowed and looked to Colmuir for guidance.

The master sergeant was eyeballing the corridor and shook his head, signing no one outside.

Dawd unclipped a longeye of his own and gently slipped it under the velvet curtain covering the window. Almost immediately his visor displayed an image of the outside world: a bakingly hot morning glared down on endless flat plains of fields, canals and scattered copses of trees. The sky was spotted with fluffy white clouds, each majestically solitary against an azure background. The shadow of the train rushed along an elevated road running beside the railroad tracks. And on the road, racing to catch the train, he saw three Imperial-style trucks. Jehanan soldiers crowded the cargo beds, hanging on for dear life as the vehicles bounced over potholes and washboarding in the road.

"They're on to us," Dawd hissed, pulling the spyeye back. "Three trucks, each with a platoon, and if Mei-sana heard someone on the roof, they're already aboard the train."

"Everyone up," Colmuir said, voice harsh. Mrs. Petrel and Cecily were already awake, faces tight and composed. The master sergeant jogged Tezozуmoc's shoulder, drew a snore and then a grumbling complaint. The older Skawtsman pinched the boy's ear, which caused the prince's eyes to fly open. "All quiet now," the master sergeant said, rising from his seat, assault rifle slung behind his shoulder.

Dawd rose as well, swinging the Whipsaw onto his hip and struggling to shed the bulky, confining poncho. Immediately the two girls took hold of the fabric, ran a fingernail down the sealer strips and pulled it away. The sergeant nodded thanks, patted his Nambu, knife, cutting bar, backup pistol and the strip of grenades down the left side of his gunrig. Then he tapped each earbug, making sure they were firmly seated.

"You've a gun?" Colmuir offered his spare Nambu to Mrs. Petrel, but the lady declined, producing a Webley AfriqaExpress from her handbag. "Good…Now, here's what we'll do – our sole duty is t' the prince – he canna' fall into their hands. So, we move t' the train engine with all speed and separate it from the rest of the cars, leaving the heathen savages behind. Then we run into Parus and make for either the Legation or the cantonment, as circumstances allow."

The Anglish girl folded the rain poncho expertly and tucked it away in her bag. Mei, meanwhile, had produced a tiny black Moisin-Nagant Mini and held the pistol clasped in both hands. Dawd put a hand on the edge of the curtains, waiting for Colmuir to give the word.

"Ma'am," the master sergeant said, checking the corridor one last time. "You lead, then the prince, then the girls, then me. Dawd will…ah, he will reduce the number of the enemy. You understand me, Sergeant?"

Dawd nodded, licked his lips and thumbed the fire control selector on the Whipsaw to high-explosive full-automatic.

"Go!" Colmuir slammed the door open and rolled out, facing the rear of the train. Petrel ducked past him, the Webley in both hands and took off down the corridor. Tezozуmoc, pale as a ghost stumbled after her, forcing Mei and Cecily to seize his arms and push him along. Dawd threw back the curtains, paused a half-second to let his combat visor adjust to the blaze of morning sunlight as he braced himself and squeezed the trigger on the Whipsaw.

A deafening howl ripped at his ears, defeating even the protection afforded by the earbugs. The window shattered outwards, spraying glass into the air, and a licking tongue of flame slashed across the front of a cargo truck racing alongside. Jehanan soldiers, preparing to leap onto the roof of the train, were sawn in half in a rippling line of explosions as the highex rounds punctured scale, flesh and bone. The roof of the truck vanished in a convulsion of flame. The driver, decapitated, was flung across the cab. The vehicle swerved violently at full acceleration, bounced into the side of the speeding train and was smashed aside.

Dawd leaned out the window, hip grinding into splintered glass, and traversed the Whipsaw across the front of the second truck. Recoil slammed him back against the window-frame. The entire vehicle was immediately obscured by a gout of flame and steam. The engine block stopped sixteen of the flechettes and shattered into a cloud of superheated metal. The front axle sheared off and the truck pitched forward, back end flying up. A dozen Jehanan soldiers flew out, some already smashed into bloody ruin, and then the whole assemblage was cartwheeling violently down the road, engulfed in flying dust and smoke.

The first truck, meantime, spun off the elevated road, plunged nose-first into a nearby field and burst into flame. Dawd ducked back inside. Machine-gun fire from the third pursuer, which had deftly swerved past the first two wrecks, marched along the side of the train, shattering windows. Heavy, thumb-sized rounds tore through the wood beside the sergeant's head. Splinters stippled his armor and spanged away from his visor.

"Damn!" Dawd leapt to the side, blood streaking the side of his jaw. The curtains disappeared, snatched away by the hail of gunfire tearing into the siding. The sergeant switched the Whipsaw to armor-piercing, braced his legs and squeezed the trigger again.

This time the jolt of flame sheared through the side of the compartment, blowing out a huge cloud of metal, wood and fabric. The third truck, hanging back a bit, suddenly came into view as the wall of the train vanished in a rain of depleted uranium needles. Dawd grinned, face blackening with propellant gasses, and walked the stuttering, sun-bright line of explosions across the engine, cab and cargo bay.

The entire vehicle convulsed, perforated by thousands of tiny punctures. The driver vanished in a red haze, the soldiers with their assault rifles staggered, cut in half, and then tumbled out onto the road in a welter of arms and legs and bloody tails. The truck staggered, swerved wildly, the roof of the cab sliding back with a crash into the truck bed, bounced over the margin of the road and rolled, spewing chunks of metal, spraying liters of blood and vanished into a stand of stumpy-looking trees in a plume of dust.

The train raced onward and Dawd swung round, suddenly thinking of the other side of the passenger car, in time to have the butt of a HK-45B smash into his face. The combat visor held, deflecting some of the blow, but his head flew back, slamming into the wall. A Jehanan in the uniform of the kujen of Takshila loomed in the doorway, reversing his assault rifle.

Dawd's hand clenched on the Whipsaw's trigger. Flame flooded the cabin, setting the seats, walls and remains of the ceiling alight. The Jehanan vanished, torn apart by a buzzsaw burst of armor-piercing, and the doorway and the far wall of the passageway disintegrated. A clear view of a field of waving grain was revealed through the ragged opening. The sergeant staggered up, switched the targeting selector to semi-automatic, and swung groggily out into the remains of the corridor.

Smoke whipped away into the slipstream of the train. Dawd caught sight of another truck racing past on the roadway, and then tried to twist left as another Jehanan charged up the corridor. This one had a bayonet affixed to his rifle and the muzzle of the HK-45B was spitting flame. The ripping sound drowned out the rattling roar of the train wheels. Dawd staggered backwards as the burst ripped across combatskin covering his left thigh and chest, but most of the heavy 8mm bullets smashed into the Whipsaw, reducing the squad support weapon to tangled, smoking-hot wreckage and tearing the remains from his hands.

The Jehanan lunged, bayonet gleaming wickedly, and Dawd caught the blow on his right forearm. Metal pierced the ablative armor, tore through his combat-skin and washed his arm with a rushing cold feeling. The slick bore down, jaws gaping, and the sergeant groped with his left hand, seized the Nambu and emptied the clip directly into the creature's snout.

A spray of blood painted the ceiling, blinding the next soldier swarming up the corridor. Dawd kicked the body of the first aside, forced himself up with one hand and thumbed the second magazine coil into the automatic. There was a burst of full-auto fire, he ducked and shot back into the smoke-choked corridor. His visor compensated for the haze and two more Jehanan staggered, pitching backwards. But there were more in the corridor behind them.

Dawd cursed; his right arm felt cold and weak and his left hip was throbbing ferociously. He ducked into the next compartment and found it choked with wounded civilians. The window was gone, ripped away by the machine-gun fire from the trucks, and the passengers were crying piteously, snouts smeared with blood, clutching their wounded to scaly chests. Broken glass was everywhere.

"Shit!" The sergeant popped back out into the corridor and pitched a handful of grenades at the muzzle-flashes. More 8mm slapped past him and he ran, bouncing from side to side. The whoomp-whoomp-whoomp of explosions propelled him down the passage. The rear half of the train car blew apart, sending a gout of smoke, wood and bodies cascading onto the tracks. The roof buckled, sending a rush of flame into the morning air. A long plume of black smoke spilled out behind the ruined car.

Still the train rushed on, heedless, clattering down the long straightaway into the outskirts of Parus.

The roar of an assault rifle in the passageway snapped Parker awake and sent his blood racing with horror. For a moment, he didn't know what to do. His mind started to question its identification of the violent sound, but his skin was flushed and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end.

Magdalena had jerked awake as well, and her head darted from side to side. "I smell -" she started to declare, and was immediately drowned out by a second burst of machine-gun fire. The little window looking out into the passage shattered, and something zzzzinged into the wooden wall above Parker's head.

"Blessed Mother Mary!" the pilot gasped, throwing himself onto the floor, hands over his head. "Get down, Mags!"

The Hesht plastered herself to the floor, mostly on top of Parker, which made him cry out in a muffled voice. Desperate to breathe, he twisted aside, head coming up slightly. Peering over the Hesht's furry shoulder, he caught sight of a human walking backwards, silhouetted against the windows lining the passageway. A Macana assault rifle bucked in his hands, fouling the air with propellant smoke.

"Oh, good and gracious lord," Parker whined into Maggie's ear. "Some stupid-ass Imperial Eagle Knight is shooting up the train!"

Colmuir reached the end of the third passenger car and ducked around the corner into a tiny space reserved for the washroom. The wooden sliding doors connecting the cars were banging open, letting a harsh, dusty wind tug at his hair. Gunfire stabbed up the corridor behind him and the facing wall splintered, torn by a handful of bullets. The master sergeant plucked a grenade out of his gunrig, twisted the arming knob and skated it back down the corridor. Then he jumped through the connecting doors and into the next car.

He was met by a wild burst of machine-gun fire and shattering glass. Colmuir plastered himself against the wall, cursing violently. Two Jehanan soldiers rushed down the corridor at him. The master sergeant swung his Macana underarm, ripped off a burst – punching the lead slick back, chest pulping red – and threw himself into the shadow of the falling soldier. The second Jehanan hoisted up his gun, cut loose a burst over the body of his falling comrade, and then the long, scaled head pitched back, punched through by a single shot from Colmuir's rifle.

As he dashed forward the length of the car, there was a sharp boom! as the grenade went off, shattering all of the windows in the second car and flinging a screaming Jehanan out to bounce along the side of the tracks, limbs flailing. Heart thudding with fear, the Skawtsman's hands were busy dumping one spent ammunition coil and loading up another.

He reached another set of connecting doors, stepped sideways into cover, heard the bang-bang of the Webley discharging and seized the opening lever for the sliding door. Two bursts of assault rifle fire smote his ears, there were screams – human screams – and Colmuir threw the lever, bursting into the compartment beyond with a single leap.

The swaying contents of a baggage car appeared before him. He saw three Jehanan in black body armor, modern combat goggles on their heads and cut loose with the Macana. The tiny space erupted with sound – bullets flayed the Takshilan commandos – and one of them, spinning at the sound of the door, rushed in low, his rifle blossoming with flame.

Colmuir felt a huge kick in his chest and shoulder and flew back into the wall. He bounced off, twitched the Macana aside, fired a burst into the Jehanan and saw the commando's head burst like a ripe melon. One of the others was down and there were bodies scattered on the floor. Colmuir dragged the rifle back towards the last Jehanan, but that one had sprung across the compartment and smashed the gun aside with a blow from his own rifle.

The master sergeant threw himself into the motion, colliding with the commando's chest. The blow staggered both of them, though the Jehanan recovered instantly; his brawny, scaled chest easily absorbed the impact. The Jehanan kicked, smashing a long, clawed foot into the side of Colmuir's head. The Skawtsman slammed into the wall again, vision blurred, then choked as a second kick lashed into his stomach.

Gagging, Colmuir felt huge claws seize him and fling him against the other wall with a bone-shattering crash. He crumpled. The sound of a knife rasping from a sheath penetrated the blinding pain. The Skawtsman twisted, trying to roll up, and the knife sheared through his gunrig, pinning him to the wall.

A gaping jaw filled with chisel-sharp teeth yawned in front of Colmuir's face.

The Webley belched flame and a heavy 9mm round punched through the Jehanan's skull from side to side. Blood vomited out of the mouth, blinding the Skawtsman. The prince's voice was yelling something, but Colmuir had lost his earbug and he was deafened by the pistol blast. The master sergeant wiped gore from his eyes and tried to stand up. A hand seized his shoulder.

Tezozуmoc's face appeared over him, staring down with wild fear. The boy dragged at Colmuir's shoulders, but now the Eagle Knight's legs had gone weak and his medband was shrilling wildly. Over the prince's shoulder, the Skawtsman saw Petrel's face – pale as ghost, spotted with blood, her raven hair a black cloud behind her head – turning in alarm.

Two crisp shots rang out and Tezozуmoc was flung aside, his Fleet skinsuit crackling and turning gray as a bullet smashed into the back of each of the boy's knees. Petrel was raising the Webley when a long-barreled military pistol – Colmuir didn't recognize the type – pressed into her throat. Pale as a sheet, she released the pistol, letting the Express fall.

There was a frozen moment as the Eagle Knight slid to the floor, hands numb. A Jehanan commando with blacked-out officer's tabs gestured Petrel aside and reached down to seize the prince's neck. Colmuir forced his hand to move. Muscles and nerves responded with glacial speed. He saw the pistol turn over once in the air. His hand was out, reaching and -

The Jehanan's tail whipped around, slapping the Webley across the compartment with a ringing clatter. The officer grinned, hoisted Tezozуmoc up and dragged him away. A hoarse hooting sound filled the baggage car and Petrel, hands behind her head, hurried to keep ahead of the gesturing pistol.

Groaning, Colmuir scrabbled for purchase on the floor, trying to lever himself up. He came face to face with Cecily, whose lifeless eyes were filmed with blood. Her festival dress was torn, her chest and stomach oozing crimson. The Skawtsman swallowed, tasting iron, and groped for his backup pistol.

"Ghawww-yeh," rumbled an alien voice. Colmuir raised his eyes and found the muzzle of a HK-45B pressed against his forehead. The metal was hot and burned his skin.

Dawd scrambled down the third car passage, his way blocked by burning debris and scattered bodies. At least two Jehanan in uniform were sprawled among the wreckage. Buildings rushed past outside, the agricultural plain now filling with warehouses, single-family dwellings and kilometer after kilometer of brick yards. The Skawtsman had his backup Nambu in one hand and a combat knife in the other. A chorus of screams and hooting wails came from the compartments he passed, making him sweat.

He ducked past a half-open door near the end of the car, automatically swinging his pistol to cover the opening and froze – eye to eye with a sandy-haired, thin human and the huge black shape of a Hesht – each of whom were wielding lengths of splintered wood.

"Ay!" Dawd shouted, jumping aside and jerking the automatic back. "No quarrel!"

A club split the air where he'd been and the Skawtsman shook his head, scrambling on down the passage. Behind him, there was a shrieking growl and someone cursing in Nahuatl.

He slid around the corner at the end of the car, knife towards the washroom, then glimpsed – out of the corner of his eye – a Jehanan soldier's back, heavy with a rucksack and harness and a bandolier of ammunition for an assault rifle. Wooden doors separating the cars banged open and closed between them. Dawd paused, gathering himself, timed the swinging doors and then vaulted across the gap, crashing into the baggage car with his left shoulder forward.

The Jehanan snapped around, rifle coming up and Dawd shot him twice in the chest, pitching the creature back. The soldier flailed, HK-45B flying out of his hands. The sergeant leapt a pair of bodies without noticing who they were and landed in a slippery pool of intestines. His foot flew out – he shouted – and fell hard. The Jehanan staggered up, wailing a warning cry, and ripped the crumpled shirt of ceramic armor from his chest.

Dawd slid in gore, twisting his feet under, and fired the automatic wildly at the soldier. Both shots missed, pock-marking the far wall of the compartment. The Jehanan lunged, tail lashing and batted the Skawtsman's outstretched hand away. His finger jammed painfully in the trigger guard, Dawd blocked a vicious kick with his knife.

Monofil sheared through scale and bone. The soldier screamed horribly, stumbling, useless leg collapsing. Dawd reversed the blade, slashing open the side of the slick's head from shoulder blade to snout. The Jehanan toppled over, gargling. The Skawtsman lunged, clearing the slippery pool and reached the far door of the compartment. Pressing his back to the wall, he extracted his mangled finger from the pistol, switched it to his off hand and jammed the wounded arm into his gunrig.

Flames licked along the ceiling over his head as the baggage car filled with smoke.

"Dawd," a familiar voice coughed. The sergeant's head snapped up. Colmuir crawled out from under the bodies by the door, combat visor gone, hair greased to his head. "They've got the prince and the Resident's wife…quickly now, lad, quickly! There's only one or two of them left."

Wrenching his attention around, Dawd swayed into the doorway, timing his motion to the jump and rattle of the train car. The sliding door banged back and the sergeant dodged through, automatic close to his chest. Sunlight blazed around him – he was exposed on an open platform, facing a tender stacked with firewood – and Dawd flung himself to the side. His hip struck a railing, he tipped over halfway and was staring down at tracks and gravel rushing past. Bullets shattered the door and tore chunks of wood out of the end of the baggage car.

Dawd folded himself back, falling to the floor of the little platform, and crawled on one hand and both knees to the other side. Craning his neck, he glimpsed a Jehanan in black body armor and a modern pair of combat goggles crouched on the far end of the fuel tender.

Cursing all arms merchants for fools, Dawd forced his injured hand to work, plucked the last grenade from his gunrig, armed the device and flipped it up and into the back of the tender. In the next motion, he rolled out from the platform, legs hooked into the railing and the automatic blazed twice in his hand as the Jehanan flinched back from the flash of the grenade bursting atop the firewood.

The commando jerked aside, hit twice in the chest, and then the blast of the grenade knocked him over the side with a scream. Dawd hauled himself back onto the platform, shucked a clip from the automatic and jammed in a fresh one. Gathering himself, he vaulted up into the fuel tender, which was now smoldering. Keeping low, he scrambled up along the cords of firewood and hurried forward. He could make out the chuffing smokestack of the engine ahead. Cinders dinged from his combat visor.

The railroad tracks split and split again as the express entered the Parus rail-yards. Despite this, the train did not slow down, roaring ahead at full steam.

Parker picked his way down the hallway, duffel digging into his shoulders as if it were filled with lead bars. Smoke bit at his throat and fouled the air. The passenger car behind him was now burning furiously, the flames fed by the rushing air of the train's passage. Gingerly, the pilot climbed over a dead Jehanan and found himself staring into a blood-streaked baggage car littered with bodies.

"Oh, Maggie," he groaned, hands clutching the sides of the connecting door, "this does not look good!"

"Move it, witless!" The Hesht shoved his duffel with her shoulder, forcing Parker to scramble across the gap and into the next car. "We'll be burned alive if we stay here."

Inside the ruined baggage car, Parker kept to the wall, trying to avoid the lake of blood, urine, intestinal fluid and limbs sloshing back and forth on the floor. He stared with amazement at the crumpled bodies of two young human women and then froze, terrified to see that one of the bodies leaning against the wall was alive. Fierce brown eyes met his and the seeming-corpse stirred.

"Ahhh…Maggie! Maybe we should…"

The Hesht was caught in the sliding doorway, but, by dint of a rasping growl and main strength, she managed to force her way through, despite the pair of duffel bags on her back catching in the mechanism. Panting, she shucked the bags, letting them splash to the noisome floor.

Colmuir glanced from the thin human to the Hesht and back again. "Civilians," he choked, sounding amused. "Give a man a hand up, would you?"

Magdalena stared down at him with cool interest. "You're the brainless kit who tossed a grenade into our compartment, I think."

"Did I?" The master sergeant swallowed, trying to muster the strength to stand. One thigh bone seemed to be broken and his chest stabbed with pain each time he took a breath. "Sorry about that, I was in a bit of a hurry."

"Luckily, Parker has quick hands." The Hest leaned down, nostrils flaring. "Pfah! You stink." She stood up, reaching for her duffel bags. "Let's leave him. The fire will reach this car soon, and we'd best be -"

All three heads turned, hearing the blast of a grenade and the rattle of gunfire.

"Ah now, the lad's in trouble again." Colmuir beckoned to Parker. "C'mon, sport, help me up. There's still work to be done. You haven't a gun to hand do you?"

Parker stared at Maggie, who snarled, showing a great many white teeth in her black face.

"Leave him!"

"But -"

The train lurched, making a shockingly loud grinding sound. Something metallic shrieked in agony and everyone in the baggage car was abruptly thrown the length of the compartment with tremendous violence.

Dawd surged up over the top of the last stack of cordwood, automatic in both hands and caught sight of the enormous glassed-in roof of the Parus train station looming ahead of the train engine. Four tracks ran into the building, and the train, still barreling ahead at full speed was rushing into siding number two. Smoke stained the sky and an unexpectedly large number of multistory buildings loomed on all sides. The sight of panicked Jehanan scattering away from the passenger platform froze him for just one tiny instant.

His eyes snapped down, the gun leveling, and he glimpsed – in a moment of crystalline, unforgettable clarity – Mrs. Petrel staring up at him with open, glad relief; the prince lying limply on the floor of the engineer's compartment; the engine-mouth blazing red; and the Jehanan officer swinging around, a long-barreled pistol lined up along his shoulder, the muzzle looming huge in Dawd's vision.

Too fucking late, he had time to think, squeezing the trigger of his automatic.

The native pistol flashed, Dawd's Nambu bucked and something slammed into his chest, smashing through the tools hanging on his gunrig and flattened violently against the combatskin. The light armor stiffened automatically, absorbing the hammer-blow of the slug, but the Skawtsman pitched backwards, spilling across the cordwood and crashing into the side of the tender. His head rang, a cloud of sparks flooded his vision and – despite the valiant efforts of his medband – Dawd blacked out.

At that very moment, while the Jehanan officer was distracted, Mrs. Petrel threw herself on the brake lever of the engine, bearing down with all her strength. A rippling shock leapt through the train cars as each set of brakes engaged in turn, shrilling deafeningly with the agony of metal on metal. The wheels skidded, gouting sparks and the entire train slid wildly out of control into the station at forty kilometers an hour.