Then Sargon struck, in the late afternoon, when half the camp was blinded by the solar field of light. Sinkholes appeared in the barracks floors. Chittering creatures poured forth like roaches from night-time drains. Half-dressed men sleeping off the night shift dove from windows and doors, sweeping fire behind them, running their weapons dry, abandoning the buildings to horrific-looking six-legged rat-like things with nasty teeth and voracious appetites. The monstrous sand miner reeled and waved as cutting beams severed its primary arm. It toppled to one side, the operator dangling from the cabin, stranded seven stories high. Guards boiled up from everywhere, shouting and running and firing until dust devils burst from the sand at their feet, when they grunted and died, their brief, last memory a high-pitched whine. The heavy weapons platoon fell back on the smelters. Most of them were burned alive. The cooks formed a valiant but doomed defensive line, shielded with skillets and brandishing butcher knives.
It was over before it started. Within the hour, Farmers were demarcating toxic zones, and Miners were swarming over the concentrator tower, calculating lines-of-sight. Cleanup teams were searching every facility, with Accountants to assess and tally anything of value for salvage. Assay teams were already working their way through piles of crystal samples from the smelters. By nightfall, the poisoned ground would be vitrified into an inert, multi-hued sea of glass. By morning, the disassembly squads with their legions of miniscule, four-armed helpers would depart, leaving wind and sand and glass and gutted buildings.
Perhaps it was providence that Hand Four were descended from the Household Grip Lagash’s Own. Perhaps it was only to be expected: these wastes lay in a desolate corner of Lagash’s old ar. The Grip was Sargon’s now, but they’d had their history from the ancient Keeper: who better to know their lines? And with it, they’d heard from Lagash himself about the strange conversations between the human Master, the manna-eyed one, and Enheduanna. “Because,” doddered the old Keeper with over-dramatic flair, “Lord Sargon would know the enemy.” Unmoved by Lagash’s voice, inwardly they yawned.
Or perhaps it was only luck that Hand Four was assigned to sweep the kitchen cellars. They were efficient and ruthless and disciplined and several cook’s helpers died by the time they came to a final locked door and heard muffled whispers inside. But when the Hand burst through, revealing several huddled vermin, the Leader barked “Hold!” before they could strike. These were different from the others. Smaller. Their color was odd. They offered no resistance. They appeared unarmed. For a second that seemed eternal, the Hand Leader watched a tableau vivant of five Warriors staring down two awe-struck boys, who cowered behind grim-faced, eleven-year-old, green-eyed Deela Azhad. Lord Sargon would know the enemy. It barked orders. One Warrior bolted to fetch a Runner. One stayed on guard. One moved out to inform the Mining Communicator to prepare for a message relay to Beacon Hill Station. The rest moved on.
Founder’s Retreat, Oquirr foothills, New Utah
“Ladies and Gentlemen!” announced the Mayor, “It is my great pleasure to introduce the True Church Temple Junior Choir!” The room dissolved into cheery applause as well-scrubbed children in lapis robes filed in to bracket the long, blank, curving reception hall wall that dissolved to reveal the purpling landscape and twinkling lights that lined the road to the pinking blush that was Saint George. “Please join them, as they lead us in our annual Founder’s Hymn of Thanks!”
The first note surged just as the final ray of sun struck the Angel Moroni at the tip of the distant temple spire, casting a golden glow onto the sunset wash that painted the stones below. Though Mormon-led, the hymn was shared, and it welled up from the childhood hearts of every New Utahan in the room, in varying approximations of the key set by the choir. It was not long, but for its few verses, the scattering of guests from Maxroy’s Purchase and parts beyond felt themselves very much outsiders to the alien tune that filled the room.
The city fell into shadow as the final chords died away, and the room burst into another round of spontaneous, cheery applause. All surged forward to play the inevitable round of can-I-see-my-house-from-here, while the Mayor’s husband pointed out key landmarks to the invited offworld guests. LaGrange drew back, as her silent pager went off. She plugged in the ‘tooth, noting with mild shock that it was not the Duty Officer, but Linda Libiziewsky who had called.
“Jeri! Get back here! Get everyone down here! It’s the MPs! They’ve seized control of—” but her words were interrupted by a distant flash, then boom, then another, then another. The crowd gasped as the Temple flared a brilliant white. Other flashes popped across the city; imagination filled in activated sirens.
Suddenly, every officer in the room moved to a Saint Vitus’s dance of slapping pockets. The Police Chief hunched, one hand cupped to ear, barking “Status! Status!” the other extended toward the Mayor in the universal wait sign. The Mayor herself was icily calm. The Bishop stood gap-jawed in horror.
LaGrange barged through to the Mayor. “I need the police to secure His Grace!” The Mayor looked to the Chief, who did not interrupt his conversation, but nodded.
LaGrange spoke to the Bishop. “Your Grace, I’ve just activated a Zone Emergency order. Zone security has been breached. The city police will escort you to a safe location away from the disturbance. I will take control of the Zone Escort that brought you here.” The Bishop nodded and moved off to consult the Choirmaster. The children dissolved away in the company of their parents.
Major Trippe made an elegant show of calling out: “Guard! To me!” as the ceremonial posts formed up inside and out, ready to spring to the city’s defense, but the effect was lost on its intended audience. The room rapidly emptied, as to a person the Saint George natives shouted words or punched codes to activate emergency contact with Ollie Azhad.
Shit, thought LaGrange. Shit, shit, shit. How do I avoid the MPs and get off this mountain? She called Linda again. The line was dead. So was the line to the D-O. She looked around. Trippe was preoccupied with something. The house guards were stripping off their Delft. She moved deliberately, identifying a few TCM locals. “Go in with the Battalion!” she hissed. “Then secure the command post. Local orders only! Pass the word to those you trust! The MP battalion’s compromised!”
And then LaGrange found herself face-to-face with Dame Lillith van Zandt, accompanied by Slam-Dunk Hooper himself. “S-TWO?”
“Sir!”
“What the fuck’s going on down there?”
“Sir, I can’t raise the D-O. I’m heading down to find out.”
“No, you’re not. You’re relieved, Captain. The Mormon Battalion is heading out to restore order. Major Trippe now has operational control. Report to him.”
Like hell I will, thought LaGrange. “Sir,” she said.
As LaGrange departed, Lillith van Zandt maintained her mask of empathetic horror. “Please excuse me, Colonel. You clearly have much to do.” He made a half bow. She turned to leave the room, and spied her target. “Colchis! Oh my, it’s too horrible! You will be all right? Where will you go?” She did not, he noticed, actually expect a reply. “Please excuse me. I really must inform Governor Jackson. He assured me that New Utah was perfectly stable. I really don’t see, under the circumstances, how we can move forward.”
Barthes was non-committal. “Yes, things do seem to have become difficult.”