robert Charrette - Arthur 02 - A King Beneath the Mountain by Robert N. Charrette
Authors: Robert N. Charrette
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metal-on-metal screeches. They grinned at her and light reflected from their teeth, teeth filed to sharp points. They all wore red wool caps as their colors and they all had mutilated themselves; these were hard-core types, but they weren't a gang she'd heard about.
"We're new in town," one of the gangers said. "Just out for a good time. You gonna show us a good time?"
She unholstered her weapon. "I think maybe you better go looking elsewhere."
They laughed at her.
Without warning one of them launched himself at her, hurtling toward her with his clawed hands outstretched. She reacted. The Arisaka Enforcer™ bucked in her hand. Her helmet filters cut the sound of the gun's report. She knew she hit him. She also knew the 10mm slug wouldn't stop his flight. She threw herself back, barely avoiding him. She felt his claws rake against her Arm-R-Plast™ vest.
The others stood and watched as he landed in an awkward heap.
"You don't want the same," she told them. They laughed at her again. Lord Above, she was dealing with wonkheads.
The one that had jumped her was getting to his feet. Definitely wonkheads. Snarling, he stalked toward her. She shot him again. He spun around and landed facedown on the pavement, but only for a moment. He got to his feet, laughing.
She was in deep shit.
Twirling around, he capered in front of her. "Too much strength for you just now. Too much! Too, too much," he crowed.
Then they were on her and she was fighting for her life.
"You are assaulting an officer of the law," boomed the loudspeaker aboard her Patroller. "Cease and desist at once. Your actions are being recorded and will be used against you at your trial. Cease and desist. You are assaulting ..." The car droned on. It was all the Patroller could do; NEC hadn't authorized the more expensive, armed versions.
Claws shredded her uniform and dug into her flesh. They tore off her helmet and took part of her ear with it. That was when she got her first good look at their faces. Lord Above, they weren't human! Teeth sank into her throat.
"Officer down," reported the Patroller. It was the last thing Shirley heard.
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3
Chardonneville was a tiny hamlet just north of Metz. No one had lived on the site for over seven hundred years until an eccentric billionaire by the name of Gourgaud decided to make it his own. He had wanted to build himself a bucolic village as a rustic getaway, a haven from the twenty-first century, but the ground breaking had uncovered a medieval village and an even more ancient settlement beneath that. The excavations had been a sensation in archaeological circles twelve years ago; there had been conferences and exhibitions. There had even been some talk of an in situ museum, but Gourgaud had wanted nothing of that. He made sure that the whole area was excavated down to the Neolithic layers until nothing was left in the ground; everything was mapped and cataloged and preserved. Some of the stuff went to Aachen, but most of it was shipped off to Cluny. Gourgaud had financed the digging and the cataloging and the publishing, setting up an endowment which specified that all work on the Chardonneville material was to take place anywhere but Chardonneville, and that no further excavations were to be allowed. He wanted no museum, no tourists; so he made sure there was nothing left to interest them. He wanted his tiny fiefdom to be left alone.
But Gourgaud died before getting a chance to move into his little village. The people he'd hired to populate his fiefdom had already moved in, and when the word came that the dreamer had died, a lot of them packed up and left, but some stayed, taking to the bucolic rural life. Chardonneville had become just an ordinary, sleepy little village, too small to be of interest to anyone but the inhabitants. The media coverage of the excavations was forgotten now. Chardonneville remained a revered name among a tiny circle of archaeological cognoscenti, but they cared
"We're new in town," one of the gangers said. "Just out for a good time. You gonna show us a good time?"
She unholstered her weapon. "I think maybe you better go looking elsewhere."
They laughed at her.
Without warning one of them launched himself at her, hurtling toward her with his clawed hands outstretched. She reacted. The Arisaka Enforcer™ bucked in her hand. Her helmet filters cut the sound of the gun's report. She knew she hit him. She also knew the 10mm slug wouldn't stop his flight. She threw herself back, barely avoiding him. She felt his claws rake against her Arm-R-Plast™ vest.
The others stood and watched as he landed in an awkward heap.
"You don't want the same," she told them. They laughed at her again. Lord Above, she was dealing with wonkheads.
The one that had jumped her was getting to his feet. Definitely wonkheads. Snarling, he stalked toward her. She shot him again. He spun around and landed facedown on the pavement, but only for a moment. He got to his feet, laughing.
She was in deep shit.
Twirling around, he capered in front of her. "Too much strength for you just now. Too much! Too, too much," he crowed.
Then they were on her and she was fighting for her life.
"You are assaulting an officer of the law," boomed the loudspeaker aboard her Patroller. "Cease and desist at once. Your actions are being recorded and will be used against you at your trial. Cease and desist. You are assaulting ..." The car droned on. It was all the Patroller could do; NEC hadn't authorized the more expensive, armed versions.
Claws shredded her uniform and dug into her flesh. They tore off her helmet and took part of her ear with it. That was when she got her first good look at their faces. Lord Above, they weren't human! Teeth sank into her throat.
"Officer down," reported the Patroller. It was the last thing Shirley heard.
CHAPTER
3
5
9
15
18
25
3
Chardonneville was a tiny hamlet just north of Metz. No one had lived on the site for over seven hundred years until an eccentric billionaire by the name of Gourgaud decided to make it his own. He had wanted to build himself a bucolic village as a rustic getaway, a haven from the twenty-first century, but the ground breaking had uncovered a medieval village and an even more ancient settlement beneath that. The excavations had been a sensation in archaeological circles twelve years ago; there had been conferences and exhibitions. There had even been some talk of an in situ museum, but Gourgaud had wanted nothing of that. He made sure that the whole area was excavated down to the Neolithic layers until nothing was left in the ground; everything was mapped and cataloged and preserved. Some of the stuff went to Aachen, but most of it was shipped off to Cluny. Gourgaud had financed the digging and the cataloging and the publishing, setting up an endowment which specified that all work on the Chardonneville material was to take place anywhere but Chardonneville, and that no further excavations were to be allowed. He wanted no museum, no tourists; so he made sure there was nothing left to interest them. He wanted his tiny fiefdom to be left alone.
But Gourgaud died before getting a chance to move into his little village. The people he'd hired to populate his fiefdom had already moved in, and when the word came that the dreamer had died, a lot of them packed up and left, but some stayed, taking to the bucolic rural life. Chardonneville had become just an ordinary, sleepy little village, too small to be of interest to anyone but the inhabitants. The media coverage of the excavations was forgotten now. Chardonneville remained a revered name among a tiny circle of archaeological cognoscenti, but they cared
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