10,000 Bones

by Joe Ollinger

  I hold my hand out in front of me and drop the little plastic vial of weevil cultures to the floor. It bounces a few times on the cement, then rolls to a stop a few meters away, between me and the two men staring at me silently.

  “I’d have a couple of handfuls of chalky dust that people on Earth could go to a drug store and buy for a few hours’ wages.” I force myself to break from the temptation and commit to the direction I’ve chosen. It comes out at a volume barely above a whisper, but I manage to say the words, “Your answer is no.”

  Greenman lets out a barely noticeable sigh. He takes a deep, slow drink of his coffee, then without warning hurls the porcelain cup to the floor, smashing it into hundreds of tiny white pieces scattering with drops of brown liquid across the cement. “A shame,” he says, his voice frigid cold. “I suppose you’ve given me no choice, then.”

  I put my hands up to show surrender but reach for the paring knife hidden underneath my cap. Greenman levels his big revolver at me, staring down the narrow brushed-metal sights with his focused right eye. As my fingers slip underneath my cap, I stare back at him over the deep dark abyss of the barrel.

  Hum-click.

  The sound of a gun, but not the sound of one firing. Not any sound a revolver might make.

  A pistol is aimed from point blank range at Aaron Greenman’s head—a compact semi-auto with an electronic firing mechanism and recoil stabilization, held by Brady Kearns.

  “Finger off the trigger,” he says. “Now.”

  “What is this?” the rich man hisses, his shock subdued under indignation.

  “I’ve been recording all of this, Greenman,” Brady threatens.

  “Recording what?” The company man chuckles. “Friendly chitchat, speculation on your guilt, economic theory . . . ” With convincingly sinister confidence, he adds, “I wouldn’t be so sure you’ll get a chance to play that recording for anyone, anyhow.”

  “With the Brink Chairman of SCAPE hostage?” The auditor adjusts his hold on the checkered polymer grip of the pistol.

  Greenman glares at him for a long moment, a condescending sneer on his face. I pull the paring knife out from under my cap, holding it in my fingers as I wait for the powerful old man to give an answer.

  “I’ll shoot her,” he says, looking back down the sights at me.

  “She’s not the one with the gun.”

  Suddenly he wheels. Two gunshots ring out in quick succession as Brady dodges and falls to the ground, trying to get up in a hurry. Greenman steps back to aim for a kill shot, but I’m already sprinting at him, leaping at him before he can turn his weapon on me. I swing the paring knife and it digs deep underneath his collarbone, just below the neck.

  A feeble wheeze escapes him and his revolver blasts off a stray shot as I tackle him to the ground. I give the knife a twist, then leave it stuck in his shoulder, the wound gushing blood. Catching his right wrist with both hands, I force his aim away. The old man’s whole arm jerks as the gun fires again, errant.

  He forces his knees up into my stomach and puts all his strength into a shove with both feet and his free arm, knocking me onto my back. With surprising speed, he scrambles to his feet and takes aim.

  A single shot rings out. Red bursts from one side of Greenman’s head, and his body gives a barely perceptible shake before it goes limp and falls to the cement in a heap. Blood gushes quickly from the hole in his skull, seeping into a red pool beneath him on the floor.

  On one knee a few meters away, Brady Kearns trembles, pistol shaking in his hand. “Oh my god I shot him.”

  I don’t know where the auditor stands right now, or what he plans to do next, so I jump to my feet and grab the dead man’s gun. The hefty weight of it is comforting in my hand. “Why did you turn on him?” I ask.

  “I didn’t,” Kearns answers, his voice wavering with uncertainty and shock. “I needed his help, to help you. How do you think we got into the spaceport so easily?”

  A grin forces its way onto my face. “Brady, you keep surprising me.”

  “I keep surprising myself.” He rises to his feet. “If you’ve got no objection, I’m going to call the police. Hopefully we’ve got enough to clear our names, or at least have this place searched.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and extends the screen. Frowning, he walks around a few paces, holding it high.

  “Don’t tell me—”

  “I think it’s jammed. They’re jamming it.”

  “Who?”

  “Greenman’s men. They’re outside.” Closing the phone and pocketing it, he’s growing quickly distraught. “We’re not going to get out of here,” he says, suddenly terrified and helpless. “They’ve got the whole building surrounded.”

  “How many?”

  “Best guess? Twenty-five.”

  That’s a lot. Not what I wanted to hear. “All armed?”

  “To the teeth. Automatic rifles, drones, gas.”

  Not what I wanted to hear, either. Unable to think of any other option, I look around for resources. I pick up a few cylindrical fuel cells, carry them to the big bay door at the end of the hangar, and place them to cover the greatest area.

  “What are you doing?” Brady asks.

  “We can’t call the authorities in, so our only chance is to bring them here with the sound of a gunfight.”

  “And what then? Where’s our proof?”

  That’s a good question. If my original theory is even correct, the hidden calcium could be anywhere among the thousands of items in this hangar, and we don’t have the time to look. But I no longer believe it’s here. Greenman would not have led us right to it, even if he planned to kill me, even if he planned to kill us both. There would have been no reward for such a risk. So if not here, where? And does it really matter? Greenman saw us coming. He had plenty of opportunity to move the evidence.

  “We can find it, we just have to hurry,” Brady babbles. “I did the math, and judging by the frequency of the shipments, my theory is that the calcium’s in a container of about two cubic meters, probably labeled as something else.”

  “It’s not here.”

  That seems to freak him out. “What?”

  Ignoring him, I rip open a pack of emergency breather masks, the kind they keep on shuttles in case of a loss of pressure. I toss one to him and he catches it clumsily with his free hand. “For the gas,” I tell him, pulling another over my head and letting it hang by its strap from my neck. I remove a zero-atmosphere arc welder from its packaging and attach it to the end of a lightweight aluminum robotic jib arm, which is basically just a few aluminum poles connected by hydraulic joints. I place that next to a thick pallet of insulation foam which looks like the best option for cover, then drag two big, heavy sheets of ablative shielding across the floor and put them down there, too.

  Kneeling down behind the pallet, I motion for Brady to join me. He scampers over and takes a knee. “Too close,” I tell him. “There.” He moves to the opposite end of the pallet a few meters away.

  “They’re armored?” I whisper.

  “Most of them.”

  “Gotta be headshots, then. Only pull the trigger if you’ve got one you can land.”

  We sit with our backs to the pallet, ready and on edge. Maybe a minute of silence passes before I hear the hum of the big bay doors sliding open.

  “Mister Greenman?” a voice calls. “Mister Greenman, our orders were to enter if you didn’t come out in ten minutes.”

  I put a finger to my lips, indicating to Brady not to answer.

  “Mister Greenman?” the voice calls again. “Please acknowledge.”

  Silence for a few seconds, then the sound of footsteps at the entrance. Slow, cautious. Probably two pairs.

  “Stop right there,” I call out. “We’ve got Greenman.”

  The footsteps stop. The voice calls back, “Who is ‘we?’”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I answer, trying to sound in control. “Put down your arms, and
we can discuss his return.”

  “If he’s safe, let him tell us that himself.”

  I look to Brady with a shrug. It was worth a try.

  The two pairs of footsteps move in a hurry, and a few seconds later I hear the sound of a couple of metallic objects bouncing on the cement, followed by a hiss. I pull on my breather mask and loosen the valve, and Brady follows my lead. After a moment, gray vapor wafts into the air, spreading and thinning and reaching around the shelves and pallets and stacks of supplies. For a second, I’m terrified that they’ve used a chemical that can go through skin, and I even feel a panicked itching, but then I realize that it’s just paranoia. The gas is doing nothing.

  After a minute or two goes by, a barely perceptible whir approaches. Drones.

  I lift one side of the ablative plating and rest it on the edge of the foam pallet over my head, hunching low underneath it. Brady catches on, even in the low visibility, and does the same. I just hope the plating is thick and hard enough to stop whatever ammo they’re packing.

  I get my answer soon enough, as the machines pick up on the movement, hover closer, and release a burst of fire, which plinks off the top of the plating. I turn the arc welder on, lighting a hot, thin line at the tip. Holding the jib arm at the end, I wait, and sure enough, the drone hovers down and sideways, searching for an angle in the few meters between the pallet and the stacks of boxes against the wall.

  The drone creeps into view. I stab the jib arm forward, swiping with the hot spike of the arc welder. It hisses and sprays golden sparks, and the machine drops with a crack on the cement, broken.

  A burst of small bullets pings off metal behind me. I turn to see Brady flat on the ground, the sheet of plating covering him like a blanket as the drone drops ever lower, trying to get at him. I push my own shield aside, swing the jib arm around in a wide arc, and stab it at the drone just as it turns to face me. The hot tip of the arc welder slices through one of the drone’s four rotors. It tips and spirals. I thrust at it again, piercing into the body, and the thing drops to the ground, stopped.

  Brady crawls out from under his sheet of plating, and suddenly everything is quiet.

  That quiet is broken by the sound of boots stepping softly on cement. Just a few of them. Facing Brady, I tap my gun and hold up three fingers. He looks terrified, but nods in acknowledgment, and I lower one finger. Then the next. Then the last one.

  I lean out over the pallet of foam, take careful aim, and squeeze.

  The fat revolver kicks in my hand. A heavily armored mercenary drops dead, plugged through his tactical helmet. I swing to the next one and hastily fire another shot, dropping him. I duck back down just as the rest of the mercenaries in the doorway take hasty aim at me and unleash a flurry of bullets from their rifles, some zipping through the air over my head and crunching into walls, others thunking into the foam pallet. Brady is already cowering low.

  “Get any?” I ask him.

  “Yeah I think I hit one.”

  “Move.”

  The boots are stomping in now, dozens of them. I crawl a couple of meters closer to Brady, and he slides closer to me. A machine gun bursts off some cover fire for the troops pouring through the door, but I know that in seconds they’ll be in here and fanning out, so I take a deep breath and rise to my feet, dozens of bullets whipping by me as I take careful aim and fire.

  A piercing crack as the fuel canister by the doorway blows. A fiery quick flash throws heavily armored men into the air like ragdolls. Another goes off almost simultaneously, hurling another cluster of soldiers hard to the ground before I even get back behind cover. They shout and panic, abandoning their little hand signal system as the ones left alive and able to get up beat a hurried retreat. I can’t help but smile, even though I don’t have a shot at the last canister.

  “Form up!” a voice shouts, demanding discipline. “Storm! Storm!”

  The sound of more men rushing into the hangar is muffled by the hammering of a machine gun laying down cover fire. When it stops, I peek up again and fire two more shots, the first missing, the second punching right through a view-glass facemask and killing instantly. Bullets rain at me as I duck back down.

  Brady fires a barrage of blind shots over our cover. The gray smoke has dissipated, so I pull my breather mask loose and sniff the air, testing it. It smells of gunpowder and burnt plastic, but seems breathable, so I let it hang loose around my neck.

  I roll away from the pallet of foam, exposed for half a second before I’m in cover behind tanks of sealant. I rise to my feet and lean out. The remaining mercenaries are storming back in, fanned out. I take aim and pop one in the center of his helmet, right above the visor. He drops as I duck back into cover. The others fire as they keep coming. Bullets plug into the barrels of sealant, stuck before they can reach me. Brady blasts off a barrage of shots, taking another one down.

  I check the piping hot chamber of Greenman’s revolver. Only got two shots left.

  “Brady,” I call to him, “we need to get to your car.”

  He doesn’t question why. But he hugs the pallet he’s hiding behind, wincing in fear as bullets keep zipping over his head. “I’m not gonna make it, Taryn. You go.”

  “What?”

  “The car’s set to let any user with the key drive it,” he shouts. “It’s in the ignition. Take it and go. I’ll survive here.”

  I’m not sure I believe him. “Brady, we’ve got to go!”

  “Then go! I’ll cover you!” He fires a couple of blind shots over the pallet.

  The car is only about ten meters away, but it’s exposed, and it’s not a straight path. I’ll have to wind around some boxes and a wide stack of aluminum sheets. Creeping to the edge of the barrels I’m hiding behind, I crouch low, then spring forward. I roll into cover behind the aluminum as bullets zip by, cracking off the floor behind me and plunking into the other side of the soft metal, burying in it. Underneath the gunfire is the faint sound of approaching sirens. Oasis PD will be inbound by now, and Space Port Security will be setting up outside.

  I lean out around the side of the aluminum, aim, and take a shot. One of the mercenaries drops his gun and grasps at his neck. I’m behind cover again before I see him fall.

  The car is about seven meters away. “Brady,” I call back, “how about that cover fire?”

  As the bullets rain over our heads, we share a second of eye contact. He’s terrified. “Are you sure about this?” he asks, barely audible over the gunfire.

  “I’m going,” I tell him. “If you want me to make it, put some metal in the air.”

  When I hear the sound of a clip dropping out of a rifle between bursts of fire, I lean forward and run for it. Three long strides and a dive, and I’m at the car. Bullets fly past and crack off the cement as I fumble to open the passenger-side door and get in.

  In the seat, I duck low, keeping my head below the level of the windshield. Feeling something wet and warm just above my hip, I touch my side. The skin burns with pain and my hand comes away red. A long gash has been dug there by a bullet.

  The blood’s pouring out fast, but I’ll live. I can hear bullets chewing into the car by the dozens, many punching through the windshield. I’ve got to hurry if I want the thing to drive. In a rush, I climb into the driver’s seat, start the engine, and hit the gas.

  I shove the driver’s side door open and lean out, steering by the view of the floor. I’m playing a dangerous game, and I’ve got to be quick.

  The unspent fuel canister comes into view, and in one smooth motion, I lean out, hook it by the handle with my index finger, and fling it into the passenger seat. Slamming the door shut, I speed forward blindly. Boxes and objects thump over the hood and bounce off the cracking glass. A mercenary in heavy armor rolls over the car in a sprawl, breaking the smashed windshield completely. Then suddenly the light changes. I’m out.

  I sit up and have to swerve immediately to avoid crashing into a parked van. Uniformed offi
cers flee in front of me, shouting. The car smashes through a barricade and something pops, making the wheels skid, but I keep the pedal to the floor, straightening out, getting the speed back up as more bullets ding into the body.

  Sirens sound behind me. To my left, Oasis PD cars are flooding through the nearest entrance gate, speeding to cut me off. I keep the pedal pressed hard to the floor. My pursuers are closing in from multiple angles.

  It’s going to be close.

  I’m only a hundred meters or so away from the launch area when one of the cop cars catches my rear bumper and sends me into a screeching spin. Brady’s car rolls up on two wheels for a second, but then comes back down, and I hit the accelerator again, wheeling back toward the launchpad. The guns have gone strangely quiet; they must be afraid of hitting the shuttle.

  In seconds, I’m there. I screech to a stop at the base of the support ramp, grab the fuel canister, and get out. Half a dozen police cars from several different agencies are pulling into position all around, officers rushing out, aiming weapons at me. In two steps, though, I’m at the base of the support ramp, a huge piece of infrastructure with water, fuel and oxygen hookups, and a ramp leading up to the door of the shuttle, which sits in its recession under the hard, smooth pavement, the top poking twenty meters or so above ground.

  “Stop right there!” one of the cops shouts. “Down!” yells another. “Put the gun down!”

  “Bomb!” I call out at the top of my lungs, holding Aaron Greenman’s heavy revolver up to the fuel canister like it’s the head of a hostage. “Back off! Back! Off! Bomb!”

  That makes them hesitate. For a second, I hope that there’s a lack of leadership here, but as I slowly back my way onto the ramp, a few more cars come screeching up, and out of one of them storms a Space Port Security Captain, silver-and-blue epaulets on his uniform peeking out from a hastily strapped-on armor vest. He holds a small mic up to his mouth as he steps to the forefront, in command. “Stop right there,” he says, his voice amplified. “We’d like to hear your demands.”