Tasìa shot laser pulses at the damaged walkway to test its tensile strength with her PalmEx PA. After it returned a diagnostic, she found a matching structure on the walkway below them sitting at a sixty-five degree angle. She hit it with pulses for comparative purposes.
The damaged walkway was only seventeen percent the tensile strength of its fully intact counterpart.
Fortunately, that was still above the margin of being stable enough to hold their weight. It could bear approximately 380 lbs. without rupture, according to the estimate.
"It's doable," she said as she nodded to Annebél.
Annebél pointed ahead with a dramatic wince.
"Those little stations along the way could be trapped."
With a nod and a 'hmm,' Sachmilli Cuervo answered.
"I have something on me to test them with," he said.
As he pulled out a polymer gun, with the appearance of a toy, Sachmilli took up the lead, "I keep this to check for fire ant mounds in El Hoya."
Tasìa giggled to herself when she recalled how she had planned to shoot salt and pepper up the nose of Leeza Donada, the corporate suit fired for suspicion of murder. Sachmilli possessed a heavy-duty version of a salt gun. The serious psi capability of it with twin 1200 psi CO2 canister feeds would blow through the top of a skull if you tried shooting up a nostril with it.
Most surprising was the name of the manufacturer. It was a Magellani gun.
Then, I shall take it very seriously, she thought.
Annebél bowed graciously as she said, quietly:
"The man with the golden gun, take the lead, please."
Was that a double entendre? Tasìa wondered and then shook her head vehemently in protest that her thoughts went down that path.
Sachmilli was her godfather!
Annebél replaced the Bennili 12-gauge with the other long rifle strapped to her back, a .38 Remmington bush rifle.
They both fell in line behind Sachmilli.
Cuervo, often called Old Crow by his employees, led them to the first platform at the far end of the Cistern. An enclosure covered the back side of it.
Sachmilli stopped thirty meters ahead of it. Tasìa couldn't make out its purpose from her limited vantage point.
Sachmilli must have detected her restlessness; he answered:
"It's an elevator. Hold on. Keep your gun at the ready. I don't have full visibility."
Holding a solid block of pink salt, Sachmilli slid it up the magazine well.
Pulling the chamber port switch, he caused the block to be chipped, clipped, and capped on the bullet end and segmented into nine rounds.
A tenth round was merely the carved waste material compacted and intended for a spit out.
He popped off four shots inside the enclosure. A small explosion plugged on the front bullet end of each round caused pink salt to spray out propulsively, creating a volatile storm that crashed against the entire area for several seconds.
Nothing reacted, to which Sachmilli shrugged.
"A bit anticlimactic compared to seeing that shit tear into a four-foot-long fire ant queen."
They approached the enclosure, and it became instantly clear as they stared at the counterweight that not only was the elevator cart on the floor below, but the power generator and chain gears were also.
Both Sachmilli and Annebél turned their gaze towards Tasìa. She would have protested she was out of shape for rigorous cat burglar excursions, but the kid was still waiting to be rescued.
After sliding on a pair of gloves, Tasìa jumped on the chain and seized it against her thigh muscles. She gripped it with both hands and eased down it hand over hand.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Twenty-five meters down, Tasìa set her foot down, gained her balance enough to lean over the generator clamped to the side of the platform, and stoked it into motion.
The elevator responded.
As she waited for her less mobile comrades, Tasìa sent a ping over to the far end balcony-style platform.
Three PAs lit up. She called the model with the least frills that emphasized functionality. That would be the adult of the group.
"Hello."
"Gertrod?"
"You're the short girl over there?"
She didn't complain. The description was accurate.
"Yup. How is your friend holding up?"
"My little brother. I've contained the bleeding, but he needs full wound dressing before we move him."
"Hold tight. We'll be there shortly," Tasìa reassured him.
"Hey, before you go. Those shacks are patrol stations. I don't know if they all were on the hunt before you arrived. It was too hectic to keep up with everything. Birddog was in panic mode. That guy Matzi escaped and ran into the pump house building."
"Will do," Tasìa acknowledged before hanging up when Annebél hovered over her.
Sachmilli took the lead once more.
They followed a curved walkway that hugged the Cistern wall. It then met up with a straightaway that connected to a platform forty meters up from them.
It was covered in a utility shack. A doorless frame appeared welcomingly enough.
He stopped six meters from the entrance, held the salt gun against his hip, and fired three quick shots, gunslinger style, first at the floor, then waist level, and finally towards the ceiling.
More living glass locusts scattered out from the entrance and exit portals. The interior suddenly lit up in blue light.
Tasìa was quick to send a drone into the shack to push the insects away towards the back exit.
After the explosion cleared out, the locust chirped in extreme stridulation.
Annebél switched back to the 12-gauge, cursing she was growing low on shells. Sachmilli's high-pressure rock salt gun was approvingly effective at ripping into their carapaces.
Tasìa switched out the auto-explode to full manual. The drones were much more capable than how she currently used them, given her unfamiliarity with the operation of a 50-Split.
She popped out a drone and stopped it in front of the entrance. The gyrojets could keep it aloft for over seven minutes in place when switched to feed out through an inner and outer fin ring that circled in opposite directions from one another.
Switching on her Katy Lieds, Tasìa called up the 50 Split's on-board user, service, and training manuals.
Quickly she read through the topic: extending the implosive area of effect, as Sachmilli implored her, "Quickly, mi senorita, they are grouping outward. Something is directing them again."
Could Fiona still be alive? Who are her cohorts?
She held down a button labeled Direction Cue as she ordered the drone to begin to cycle a heavy spherical infolded current of heated gas towards the shack entrance; in other words, slowly implode.
It could sustain this condition for a dozen seconds.
She slunk the drone into the shed for a few seconds and maneuvered it back out the front entrance. It now held hundreds of locusts in place who struggled to get away. Tasia zigzagged the drone to catch two groups of locusts approaching her.
Movement came from the shack as something snapped, sounding like a broken ankle, then tumbled to the floorboard. Someone was hidden inside.
A cohort? Unusually quiet, and must have been injured when I gathered the locusts.
Tasìa pushed her collection of living glass locusts back inside the hut and squeezed the explosion release trigger.
The roof was damaged with a splatter of tiles, but the locust threat was no more. Sachmilli took the lead as they entered the shack.
"Careful, I see a seam rip in the floorboards," he said, but then he stopped and then whispered an ancient phrase in Guarani, the indigenous language of Paraguay; words he muttered in a high-pitched voice as if avoiding the notice of unseen powers.
"Mbya mba'u-gua!"
"Curséd of the Fallen Ones!"
He meant the Nephilim.
Tasìa peeked over Sachmilli's shoulder. It was hardly a giant as Old Man Cuervo's words implied. Barely four feet in length, even.
A dead Al-Majhul lay shredded from head to toe inside chain mesh armor at Sachmilli's feet. Above them, racks dripped of a violet nectar.
Feeding stations for the living glass locusts, Tasìa concluded.
Sachmilli kicked a device out from the Al-Majhul's hand before picking it up. It was an odd multi-tool.
He freely let it go as Annebél grabbed at it. She was a collector of multi-tools.
Then he laughed heartily as he smacked at a half-destroyed control console and screen mounted between grips on a workbench.
"His bad luck. He was attempting to fix this as we were drawing closer. That is why we were not ambushed."
Tasìa laughed along with the Old Crow. It seemed she could not even keep the almost alien Al-Majhul alive if she wanted to. Whatever she did, they just died.
"That poor, stupid son of a bitch," she snorted, but thought it was an unfair thing to say; something in her gut told her the Al-Majhul were listening in.
For that reason, it was best if they found her notorious.
Then, as they began to line up to move forward, Sachmilli got a text notification.
"It's Mel." He announced.
Tasìa's heart fluttered knowing the Nightwing was alive.
Sachmilli frowned.
"He has a broken wing. Deep in country. Surrounded by Charlie."
"What," Annebél asked with her face scrunched up.
"My weird little dude enjoys watching stories about the US involvement in Vietnam and is obsessed with the Green Beret military unit. It means he is in hiding from nearby enemies."
Sachmilli texted assurances back to the Nightwing. Once finished, Sachmilli closed his PA, and turned to Annebél. He offered her his salt gun.
"The two of you go ahead; I need to retrieve Mel's cage and emergency kit."
Tasìa cleared her throat and held up her PalmEx.
"I'm calling Elise for assistance. She was a battlefield nurse, you know. Plus, I need to let her know about the firefight. If we killed Caza, best she hears it from me."
Sachmilli breathed in deep through a grimace.
"She should have listened to me; you all know that. But, fine. I'll be the bigger man. This is no time for quibbles."