“I’ve stayed off these since they regrew half my heart,” he said nostalgically, “but I’ve kept ’em fresh. Now’s as good a time as any to have one.” He fumbled in a drawer, found an old hand-carved container and from it took out a battered old cigar lighter. He lit the cigar, puffed on it to make it catch full, and leaned back, his expression almost as if he were witnessing the Second Coming. Then he suddenly bounded into action.
“All right, people! Go get that little snake and let’s go spit at the devil!”
Cromwell’s armor was an intimidating sight, and the malleable “shell” that formed around him and protected him also could take on some qualities at his very thoughts. It was shining now in the sun, gleaming silver, and it was impressive.
John Robey had on the crimson robe of a security officer. He liked the look, even though he was, of course, as vulnerable as ever in the thing. It took years to learn how to mentally merge with those combat suits, and probably many more to learn how to use them properly. He would have liked its protection, but not unless, like Cromwell, it was second nature and second skin. Instead, he watched Doc Woodward, and he was impressed. He’d never seen the old man so up, so seemingly confident and almost eager for some kind of action. He was taking this whole thing seriously, but, somehow, you got the feeling that the old boy was enjoying this, at least on some level.
As Ziggee led them up towards the village and then to the left of the great barn, Cromwell was already in full sensor mode and on a scrambled tactical frequency he was certain nobody but his people could pick up.
“Top floor barn, facing the pasture,” Cromwell ordered. “I think it’s a good spot for a sniper.”
“What shall I do if he’s up there, sir?” Alpha’s voice responded.
“Oh, terminate anybody who has a weapon. If they have any gear, though, try and keep that intact. Keep it quiet.”
They were in the pasture now, and Ziggee was looking around as if searching for some kind of marker. Either that, Robey thought, or he was afraid of stepping in crindin dung. It didn’t smell all that bad out here, but there was a lot of it.
Woodward sensed that the little weasel wasn’t too sure of himself. The Doctor glanced at his watch and noted that it was pretty much on the nose when the meeting was supposed to take place.
“Apostles, this is Archangel,” came a general frequency call to all of them. “I’ve picked up activity about twenty meters to your right. I’m also reading hostile powered weapons in the barn and in the last house facing the pasture.”
“Got it,” Alpha responded. “Delta and I will take the barn, Gamma the house, Epsilon will hold between as backup. Move!”
Ziggee finally stopped in the middle of the field and scratched his head, then turned back to the trio. “Honest, sir, this is about the place. They was supposed to put a marker here, but I don’t see it.”
“I hate it when demons aren’t punctual,” the Doctor growled, “but we’ll wait a little bit. Who knows? There may be surprises in store.”
Almost on cue there was the curious and unique sound of an energy pistol firing on full power, and suddenly from the small lift door at the top of the barn something pitched forward and fell the nearly fourteen meters to the ground.
“One down,” Alpha reported. “One running like all the demons of Hell was chasing him. Shall we pursue?”
“Negative. Anybody who runs like that doesn’t need encouragement. You two stay up there and cover us instead. Epsilon move to back up the house entry.”
Since Cromwell was in his suit and on a high security frequency, he alone could speak back and forth without anyone else hearing. On the other hand, Ziggee was beginning to look back at the body that seemed to be still smouldering on the ground and the little man didn’t look too good at all.
A second set of three sharp electronic blasts came from the house. Within seconds, it seemed to catch fire, with smoke coming from the small back window.
“Two more down,” Epsilon reported. “I don’t think we can put this thing out on our own, though.”
“If it doesn’t look likely to spread, let it burn,” Cromwell told them. “If it does, allow the villagers to put it out.”
Woodward looked at the silvery suit of armor quizzically. “Tom?”
“Nothing, sir. Uninvited guests are taken care of, and we may have a midday cook fire over there.”
“Hey!” Ziggee yelled, a real nervous wreck at this point. “You ain’t supposed to do that!”
“Neither were you,” Woodward responded, still enjoying his cigar, now already about half smoked. “Now, your Captain what’s his name can come on out in the open like us, fully armed, and bring his best soldier with his best equipment. Then we’ll be even. But snipers taking beads on us from hidden places—that will never do.”
“I—” Ziggee started to respond, but he suddenly stopped and just stared, apparently taken as off guard as the three from the ship.
“Doctor Woodward, so nice of you to come,” said a woman’s voice. They all turned and saw Eve, naked as the day she was born and still showing the bruises of her bonds and captivity, standing there woodenly.
“Eve!” Robey shouted. “It’s me, John!”
Woodward put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “That’s not your Eve, although she’s certainly dressed like it.”
“You are correct, sir,” said the figure. “I am Captain Sapenza. I am using this body for several obvious reasons, including the ones you just so ably demonstrated. They were not amateurs, either, that your people took.”
“Neither are mine,” responded the Doctor.
“Eve” laughed, but it was a hollow, wooden laugh, like the voice, without body language to reinforce it.
“In addition to the safety this method affords me,” Sapenza through Eve continued, “it also demonstrates that I am not without resources myself, even if I do not have anything on the scale of yours. I wish to demonstrate that we are not merely talking potential death of your people here.”
Cromwell was inaudible to the rest, but not to Archangel above. “Archangel, is this a broadcast or is she truly possessed by something?” This was new to him and he didn’t like it.
“If it’s a broadcast I do not have a way to find the frequency or method of transmission,” the controller in orbit above them reported. “Either this captain is inside the body or he’s got some method we know nothing about.”
Woodward sighed. “Well, I am impressed, I admit, although the shame she must feel is not reciprocated by looking at a very attractive if mishandled and maltreated female form. Possession of even the most holy isn’t unknown to us in history, but only her body is in danger, not her soul.”
“Her soul, if there is such a thing, is as much in my possession as her body,” the Captain responded. “Conditioning, hopelessness, trauma—all that can, in the hands of experts, be simple to do. We’ve had a lot of practice with just some of these dumb peasants. You don’t need gimmicks, technology, any of that. You just need a damp cell, some chains, a bare light, and a feeling of total and complete impotence, and to stop them when they go through the possible suicide phase. Anybody can be broken, Doctor. Anybody. Even you if I had you, or, for that matter, me if you had me and went that route. And when you break, you’re damned. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”