Тим Пауэрс - Bugs and Known Problems

Finally, Dutto ran down the last bits of his testimony before sagging backwards like a doll whose sand was leaking out. Into the hushed atmosphere one of the prelates disbelievingly addressed a former friend.

“Gregory, is this true?” an older archbishop said, extending his arm to touch Atherton-Clive’s shoulder. The accused batted the shaking hand away.

“Shut up, you damned fool,” Atherton-Clive said, squaring his shoulders and facing the Camerlengo. “Your pet dogs will enforce this farce, no doubt, Crivetto. What would you have of me?”

“Confess, Your Grace,” replied Cardinal Crivetto. “Choose to repent. Declare a vow of silence, never again exercise any ordained ministry and accept a life at prayer within these walls for the rest of your life. If you insist upon the full trial under the Inquisition, you will certainly face a capital sentence.”

“You leave me nothing!” Atherton-Clive sidled towards one edge of the open space, but kept well distant from the nearest Swiss Guard.

“I offer mercy,” answered the Camerlengo.

“I choose more,” said the archbishop, unrepentantly. He drew a small, flat automatic from under his vestments and shot the nearest guards four times. One was Aldemar, and he slumped, dropping his halberd with a clatter. The other lay face down so suddenly, I couldn’t be sure who I’d lost. The vice-regent grabbed Archbishop Tangretti by the neck to serve as a human shield.

At the first shot, several Guardsmen, including myself, lunged into the space between the Camerlengo and the shooter. Others advanced with their halberds as Atheron-Clive walked backwards out of the pew and towards the front of the church. For a sixty-year-old man, he moved well. Of course, he had the advantage of surprise and desperation. The other prelates were shocked into immobility and then panicked at the sudden violence. Some scurried towards us like a flushed covey of quail, blocking the Guardsmen who advanced, blades at the ready.

“Halt, or I’ll shoot this man!” Atherton-Clive threatened. He wedged his gun under Tangretti’s jaw, pushing hard enough to make the muzzle disappear into the man’s fleshy wattle. Where had the archbishop found a FN Five-Seven? It had been adopted by many security services precisely because it could defeat modern armor, let alone our antiques.

“Another step, and I’ll kill him and as many more as I can!”

I only carried my familiar SIG Sauer and though I closed the gap rapidly, I was still several meters away. Even at this range, I could easily strike the hostage.

“I’m leaving!” Atherton-Clive yelled. “Nobody follow or the good monsignor will join those dogs on the floor.”

It was worth the risk. I had a nearly ideal sight picture, the front post in perfect focus, the target’s head slightly blurred but distinct.

I inhaled fully and then let half of my breath trickle out slowly.

“Hold!” the Camerlengo ordered behind me. “Don’t shoot!”

I’d been shocked at Camerlengo’s offer of leniency. His order struck me with like a blow.

I vibrated with the need to kill Atherton-Clive. For a moment I almost added the extra fraction of pressure needed to trip the sear and complete the shot, but the moment passed. I forced myself to relax a trifle, and laid my forefinger along the trigger guard. Arrayed behind me were a dozen Guardsman, weapons held horizontally, hip high.

I could hear Muller panting, restraining his own urge to close and kill.

We all wanted blood. But we were still sworn.

“You can’t escape your sins, Gregory,” Cardinal Crivetto said, almost kindly.

Atherton-Clive snarled. With his right hand he used the muzzle of his weapon to force the hostage’s head upwards and with the other, opened the counter-weighted door before slipping through.

“Boivin, guard these men with Second section!” I ordered, trusting my senior noncom to keep the other accused from fleeing. “Fourth, on me!”

Even as I screamed my orders, I lunged after the vice-regent. So did several others and we piled up almost comically as too many men with polearms attempted to open the chapel doors. Once through, we stumbled again, squinting in the sudden brightness and tripping over the abandoned hostage.

I heard the footsteps receding, and gave chase along the garden’s emerald topiaries. There was no way that I would allow Atherton-Clive to escape. He fled northwards, toward the stairs that led to the museum and the underground car park we had used to get the vaccine.

I emerged from the garden, and immediately saw my quarry surprisingly close. Atherton-Clive was no fool, and knew that he couldn’t outrun us. Instead he shot several times. One round took me across my left thigh, burning like fire. Another glanced obliquely from my helmet, wrenching my head sideways so hard I felt my neck vertebrae grate together. My leg held, though blood sheeted down my leg, saturating my sock and boot.

Ahead, I could hear Atherton-Clive calling for help. Giant, calloused hands pulled me up. Muller, watching out for me again.

He grunted, eyeing me with concern, then ordered one of the accompanying Guards to tend to the other wounded man, down with two bullets that penetrated his cuirass.

“You okay, sir?”

“It’s nothing,” I answered. I began to add more orders when I heard Atherton-Clive ahead, screaming for help. I couldn’t see the museum, but it was close. I ordered the men forward.

“Don’t wait! After him!” It was imperative that vice-regent not escape. It was a matter of honor. It was a matter of justice.

The unwounded Guardsmen sprinted boldly ahead, but I heard more shots, more than Atherton-Clive’s pistol could hold.

Muller looked the question at me. I had no idea either. Who could be shooting?

We reached the foyer of the museum’s upper floor. There we found a bloody tangle of bodies. Swiss Guards lay shot, their striped blue, gold and carmine uniforms sodden with more blood. At least two were dead, curraisses punctuated with perfect black circles, the haft’s of their halberds still gripped in armored gauntlets.

Others were wounded. But how?

Two Gendarmerie were also present. Both were dead. Lecuyer lay with both hands on his weapon. The spike of his halberd was still buried in the chest of one dead man whose soft body armor had failed to stop the heat treated steel. The throat of the other was gashed all the way to his spine. He had a carbine, which I collected as Muller and a few others saw to our wounded.

I don’t know if the Gendarmerie were part of the archbishop’s conspiracy or just reacted to the sight of the Swiss Guard chasing the archbishop with murderous intent. It didn’t matter right now, except that the vice-regent had even more to answer for.

“On me!” I said, wrenching the door to the stair open. Below I heard shouts, then a single shot.

Atherton-Clive was still in reach.

Two flights later, we burst into the small garage. Our vehicles were there, as well as a wounded Gendarmerie officer, clutching his stomach. An SUV was being used to ram open one set of exterior doors, and the attempt was failing. The vice-regent had been accustomed to being driven everywhere, and had no idea that the comparatively lightly build SUV was no match for the heavy doors that sealed the garage. While we watched, he did manage to spring one, opening a gap of perhaps a meter.

Through which a naked infected promptly appeared.

Atherton-Clive either panicked or was unimpressed, because he wrenched the transmission back to reverse, and as two more zombies came through the gap, he shifted back into forward, and tried one last time to ram the doubled doors. They shook, but stayed intact. The vice-regent did manage to push the radiator back into the fan, and I could hear it beating itself to death as green radiator coolant poured from beneath the truck.