Thermographics were almost a waste of time. I saw lots of humans moving quickly, lots of momentary blossoms of gunfire. Then I saw the dragon. There was a streaming arc of flame from a machine in the middle of Westbourne Avenue moving towards us. The arc touched a building and there was a roof top garden on fire. I saw the multi-hued heat signature of a burning human jumping from the roof.
The flames burning colder but still burning as the Humber’s murky waters engulfed him.
I switched to low-light optics and edged over to the window and peeked out. Further up the Avenue I could see a flat-bottomed riverine patrol boat. The green optics flared as the deck-mounted zippo sent another stream of napalm into the terraced houses on the same side of the street as me. I magnified my optics. On the deck I could see soldiers in British uniform. I tried to make out their insignia; failing that I managed to decipher the boat’s serial number. They were a guards unit of course, the Coldstream Guards. Fortunate Sons.
I backed away from the window, glancing over at Morag and Pagan. They were still jacked in but Morag’s seizure seemed to have stopped.
Every single vet hated the Fortunate Sons. Every nation in the world and the colonies had them. In Britain it was all the guards units. The worst thing about it was when you joined the army you got all the death and glory histories beaten into you during indoctrination. Most of the regiments that had become the Fortunate Sons had a proud history. The men and women who had died serving in those regiments would probably be sickened to see what had been done to their legacy.
The Fortunate Sons were the children of the wealthy and influential. Sons and daughters of corporate executives, the independently wealthy, civil servants and other government functionaries as well as their own officers. A convenient self-perpetuating tradition. Obviously the draft had to be seen to be fair, but the good people of the world didn’t want little Timothy or Samantha to be sent to die in a meat grinder under some alien sky, so they bravely took up the task of keeping Earth safe. I’d also heard them described as latter-day praetorians, as most of their duties tended to involve ‘counter-insurgency’ work, like this. In other words shooting civilians that the government considered inconvenient.
Vets had a lot more respect for draft dodgers. Needless to say. Fortunate Sons and proper soldiers didn’t tend to share messes, as that would’ve led to considerable bloodshed. The problem was that the Fortunate Sons still knew what they were doing.
What I couldn’t figure out was how they’d found us so quickly. It was too soon unless the sub captain had sold us out, or McShit had or someone here had. Clearly they were here for us. There are however, worse ways for a veteran to die than fighting Fortunate Sons, and I had every intention of killing a lot of them.
My pistols were levelled before the door to the flat had finished bursting open. Elspeth may as well have been shuffling, he moved so slowly. My laser pistol had drawn a bead on him before he could bring his ancient hunting carbine to bear. Jess on the other hand was wired as high if not higher than me. She had her surplus Kalashnikov in my face, my Mastodon in hers. Recognition reached my brain before I fired.
‘You,’ Jess hissed out, her features seething. ‘You’ve brought them here.’
‘Way too quickly; one of your people must’ve sold us out. They brought this down on you,’ I said, my tone more calm and even than I felt.
‘Both of you, cut it out!’ Pagan shouted from the couch. I didn’t take my eyes off Jess, nor she me. ‘We’ve got more to worry about. Help me!’ With one final look at Jess I raised both my pistols; she hesitated and then did the same with her Kalashnikov.
I turned to look at Pagan. He was inserting a jack connected to one of his own plugs into one of Morag’s, in a manner I found inexplicably obscene. I moved over to them, kneeling down beside her. I could hear the whooshing noise as the zippo was fired again. It sounded closer.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ I asked.
‘The Ambassador information form burst free. As far as I can tell, it seemed to effortlessly penetrate a number of different databases. I think it tried to pass some or all the info on to Morag. Her systems were overloaded and there must have been some kind of information bleed.’ He talked as he worked.
‘Is she going to be okay?’ I asked.
‘Come on!’ Jess hissed at us.
‘I think so. She’s going to be disoriented for a while. She’ll have to come to terms with a way to sort and process it.’
‘They’re getting closer,’ Jess said urgently. Then it hit me.
‘Pagan,’ I said. He ignored me, presumably receiving information via the connection to Morag’s plugs. ‘Pagan!’ I said more forcefully.
‘What!’ he snapped irritably.
‘Is this it? Is this what They planned? Have we unleashed some kind of viral weapon on our net?’ I asked. Pagan turned to look at me, I could tell the same thing had already occurred to him.
‘I don’t know. Ambassador’s back in his box,’ he said. I was impressed despite myself.
‘How did you manage that?’ I asked. Pagan was no longer looking at me, concentrating instead on the job at hand.
‘Well,’ he said, obviously irritated at my questions. ‘After I tried every offensive, coercive and entrapment program and sub-routine I could think of, I asked it nicely.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘For fuck’s sake, leave the bitch!’ Jess shouted. I turned round to glare at her. She ignored me. I turned back to Pagan.
‘Was it traced?’ I asked. Pagan unplugged the jacks.
‘She’s going to be out for a while. We have to move her.’ He reached under Morag to pick her up. I grabbed his arm.
‘This is important,’ I said to him evenly. ‘Obviously we’ve been compromised but I need to know if you were traced.’
‘Where we going to go?’ came a terrified voice I belatedly recognised as Elspeth’s.
‘We’ll take her to Fosterton,’ Pagan snapped, and then turned to me. ‘I can’t be sure. That thing went through every conceivable countermeasure we have and penetrated some heavy databases. All of them will try and trace an invasion like that and it wasn’t subtle.’
‘So they’ll have traced us.’
‘They had Dinas Emrys but it’s gone now. I destroyed it and they’ll squabble over the ruins for a bit. I don’t think they traced it back to me or Morag, but I can’t be sure.’
‘C’mon, c’mon!’ Jess said through gritted teeth, and then fired through the wall as she dived to the filthy carpet. I barely had time to register the huge shadow outside the window when the ruby-red light cut through the building at what would’ve been waist height. I was already down low, as were Pagan and Morag, but I saw Elspeth’s torso begin to smoke. I don’t think he had time to realise what was happening to him. He just sank to his knees and then the top part of his body collapsed and he hit the carpet face first.
Pagan scooped up Morag and ran for the door. The wall above the window looked like it was being systematically chewed away. My aural filters reduced the constant supersonic roar of the multi-barrelled, rapid-firing railgun to a manageable level. The window shattered and the wall disintegrated. Outside I could see the twenty-foot-tall mechanical form of a Walker combat mech.
Jess didn’t bother wasting any more ammo, she just ran low out of the flat. I followed her, clambering over the remains of Elspeth. The supersonic roar came again and chunks of masonry began to fall on me, as did more than a little earth. It occurred to me that the Walker was aiming high, suppressing us. If it had wanted us dead we would not have presented much of a problem. That meant they were after us specifically. I was also worried that enthusiastic suppressing fire could bring the earth-filled roof garden down on us. Suddenly I was less impressed with the Avenues community’s farming accomplishments.