Anthony DeCosmo - Fusion
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- Название:Fusion
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Jon allowed the hint of a smile to tug at the corner of his lips.
“At this time, enemy resources are focused on re-constituting air defenses in preparation for additional aerial incursions. Reconnaissance indicates an increase in AA batteries by a magnitude of three compared to pre-strike levels.”
“Jesus,” Dunston muttered. “We won’t be able to get near them again with that kind of flak.” The pilot thought about that for a moment and conceded, “Then again, we only got a handful of planes left, anyway.”
Jon pulled his eyes away from the report and agreed with the caveat, “True, but Voggoth doesn’t know that. Point is, with his farms beat up this bad that means every defensive Spook he builds is one less Sentry or Chariot or other ground weapon he can use to hit us on the Mississippi.”
The general continued reading and found that, like most intelligence reports these days, this one had offered the good news first as if apologizing in advance for the bad.
“Auxiliary enemy forces are now moving to the muster zone at Excelsior Springs to compensate for reduced farming capacity and lost core units. These auxiliary units are typically employed for mop-up or terror operations and hence have a lower offensive capability. However, observations suggest the entirety of such auxiliary forces west of the Mississippi are redeploying to Excelsior Springs. An estimate of numerical strength at this time would prove inaccurate but military planners should expect the enemy force to be similar to pre-Operation Baseplate numbers within 7 to 14 days.”
Jon let the report drop.
Dunston asked, “What do you think all that will end up meaning, General?”
Jon eased in his chair and relaxed with the feeling of a death row inmate earning a stay of execution albeit at the expense of a final, hopeless appeal. The day of reckoning would still come, but Operation Baseplate purchased more of the valuable commodity known as time.
“It means we bought ourselves a week. Maybe two. The Geryons have stopped moving south and the Centurians have stopped marching north. Wherever the Chaktaw are, they’ve stopped marching too, I’ll bet. They won’t hit us until Voggoth hits us.”
“But what does that mean for us?”
“More time to prepare,” although Jon knew that also meant more time for his demoralized army to disintegrate from fighting machine to rabble. “It also means we’re going to face more of the little guys like Roachbots, Mutants, and monsters and less of Voggoth’s heavy stuff when he does come knocking on the Mississippi.”
Jon knew those words sounded encouraging, as long as Dunston had not really examined the Intel photos. The volume of Wraiths, Mutants, mutated Feranites, and Roachbots leaving their raiding territories to join the main army was alarming, to say the least. Once they assembled they would become an army nearly as numerous as the units they replaced, albeit not quite as well-honed for large-scale battle. Yet as long as the Leviathans figured into the equation Jon guessed that made little difference.
“Do we have a fighting chance now, sir?”
Jon thought not about the unstoppable onslaught destined to smash into the Mississippi, but about Trevor and his son somewhere on the other side of the world and answered, “Yes.”
Like a Frisbee, the device spun through the dark corridors of the Sysco complex. On top of the spinning disk rested a box of wires and veins sporting two eye-like lights surveying the space below.
The Bishop saw what the flying drone saw via a display set in a wall of green paste and supported by metallic ribs that bent gently with the domed shape of the chamber. That display more resembled the warped mirrors of a fun house than a video screen but the picture came through clear enough, causing a flicker of light through the wide round room.
The surveillance drone relayed images of Voggoth’s slaughtered children: a monk in a corner near an open door; two of his expert Commandos reduced to sparking heaps behind an overturned desk in a supervisor’s office-turned-ambush point.
But no sign of their attacker.
The body of a young man who had been turned into a Missionary hovered at the Bishop’s side and listened as his master extrapolated from the trail of bodies, “She is moving toward the fuel depot. Toward me.”
“I shall send our forces to intercept.”
“Which forces are those?”
The Missionary man glanced toward the skin-like door leading away from the Bishop’s refuge. Outside, in a wide corridor and surrounding office-space, waited some 100 monks and a pair of the brutish Ogres.
“No,” the Bishop read the Missionary’s intention. “We transferred the bulk of the garrison to Excelsior Springs. They are all that remains to guard this sanctuary,” by that, the Bishop most certainly meant himself. “You will go, personally, and use the tools with which Voggoth has blessed you. Intercept her at the entrance to the depot.”
The Missionary man hesitated.
The Bishop glared in disdain for what remained of the human instinct for self-preservation inside Voggoth’s vessel. The Missionary relented and retreated from the room.
At one time the warehouse housed frozen foods in a freezer hundreds of feet long and thirty yards wide. In those days a massive cooling system maintained a frigid temperature to keep everything from chicken tenders sticks to ice cream bars in stasis while waiting to be shipped across the Midwest to restaurants and cafeterias.
That time had long past, but The Order found new use for the gigantic freezer, albeit with a temperature much warmer and humid than before.
Growths of dark green and brown covered the concrete floor in something akin to a shaggy carpet and continued up the tall walls on either side in a kind of otherworldly ivy. A handful of luminous bulbs sprouted from buds mixed in with the ivy creating starlight specks from the upper reaches of the terraformed walls.
The young Missionary man walked along the wide, open, and dimly lit warehouse aware the enemy might lurk in one shadow or another. And while he did not fear death, he did fear the wrath of Voggoth. Of course fear was an emotion useless to the machinations of The Order except when utilized as a weapon. Inside the converts to Voggoth’s legions, that remaining trace of humanity served as a detestable obstacle to purity.
Along the walls of the frozen foods section of Sysco-Olathe stood a dozen vats twenty feet high constructed by Voggoth’s engineers. The bloated containers pulsed and gurgled with the occasional hiss of a what might be considered steam.
Thick hoses traveled from the top of each vat into the ceiling high overhead, then across that roof where they met at a solitary sphere. From there fuel traveled topside for collection by passing Chariots.
Chunks of charcoal gelatin surrounded the base of each vat, spilling out on the otherwise flat and vacant center of the huge chamber.
The Missionary man passed the array with his eyes darting from side to side, waiting for the predator to pounce.
She did not. Instead, Voggoth’s convert reached the southern opening of the gigantic freezer. A particularly thick membrane dotted with tiny purple and red veins withdrew and he stepped into a wide passage running east to west in front of the bulkhead.
The thing that had once been human pulled two small balls from the pockets of his black jacket and dropped them to the floor. The balls expanded as if filling with gas until reaching the size of a beach ball. Then the spindly legs of Spider Sentries poked out from the spheres, followed by the sharp pointed nose of their jagged skewers and the rows of barrels across their ungodly faces.
The Missionary-flanked by the Spider Sentries-stood and waited. His eyes ran east up the hall. Doors lined the corridor there, some open and leading to dark passages; others closed tight, all tainted by the spread of sickly ivy.
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