by David Adams
Who died and now lives,
may they rejoice in Your kingdom,
where all our tears are wiped away.
Unite us together again in one family,
to sing Your praise forever and ever.
Amen.”
Ilyukhina shook her head. “All that unite us together again in one family crap sounds like what the neo-Communists say.”
She and he did not agree on matters of religion—frankly, she was in the majority these days—but he let it slide. “The USSR and the church were hardly friends,” said Pavlov. “No more than us and those scientists are friends. We might be on the same side, but we basically hate each other. The state worked tirelessly to eliminate the church and its believers, and the church, in turn, undermined the state basically every chance it got until finally it was re-legitimised. Religion is the opiate of the people and all that.”
“Great,” said Ilyukhina. “Well, ancient history aside…now that we’ve appeased the wrath of your imaginary sky father, sir, let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Arf arf.” On that they could all agree. It was time to go. Weapons and equipment were gathered—Pavlov took care to take the broken remains of Karpola’s helmet to stop any potential interference to their own systems—and then they all checked each other’s equipment.
When everyone was ready, the three of them made their way upward, weapons in hand and game faces on. They made their way past the cows, who regarded them silently with their big, brown, dumb cow eyes, and slowly, slowly, made their way toward the upper levels.
Without the help of the building’s sensors, they would have to do things the old-fashioned way.
Room by room clear.
It was a common misconception that CQB—Close Quarters Battle—involved a lot of running and jumping and diving. In reality, it was a slow creep. Step by step. Inch by inch. Lots of talking. There was no stealth or subterfuge. Only slow, careful advancement.
Combat of any sort was never slick, or contiguous, or smooth, and it was never what anyone expected.
The only guarantee was that there were no guarantees.
“Clear,” said Pavlov, checking another corridor. Together they crept forward, weapons ready. Every noise, every creak of the bulkhead invited close scrutiny. One of their former compatriots could be waiting behind every corner. There might be traps. Bombs. Every step took them closer to an ambush.
The temptation to avoid taking steps was strong, but every step also took them closer to locating the scientists. And every step closer to the scientists took them closer to the building’s exit and the relative safety of being outside.
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
Upward and upward.
“Hey,” asked Ilyukhina, “our pilot…Chainsaw. Why do you think they call her Chainsaw?”
* * *
Pavlov’s Cell
“That’s actually a good question,” said Pavlov to the pilot sitting across from him. “Why do they call you Chainsaw anyway? Because you think you’re tough or something?”
“What?” Yanovna glared at him. “What does this have to do with anything?”
“It’s just something Ilyukhina asked, is all. I figure now is a good time to find out.”
Chainsaw chuckled at that. “Well, someone’s never been to flight school.”
“What does that mean?” asked Pavlov.
“It means, when you arrive, your fellow pilots give you a nickname. You won’t like it. If you complain, you’ll get a worse one.”
That made sense. All branches of the military had similar traditions. “Okay, so what does Chainsaw mean?”
“It’s starting to get toward 23:30, so you’ll find out soon.” Chainsaw grimaced. “It means…I snore. A lot. Like a running—”
“Like a running chainsaw. Got it.” Pavlov was hardly looking forward to that.
“Anyway,” said Yanovna, bristling slightly at the interruption. “So, you were heading upward…”
* * *
Basement
Hammerfall
“Who cares why they call anyone anything?” said Pavlov. “I’ll ask her if I see her again. Let’s keep focused.”
That put an end to it. Pavlov peeked around the corner.
A hand. The barrel of a gun.
“Contact!” he said, pulling back.
“Who’s there?” asked a woman. Chuchnova. Her voice trembled as much as the rifle in her hands.
“It’s Pavlov,” he said. Their last interaction had been so weird. Why had she made things weird? Made this whole task of not-shooting-each-other so much harder.
“And who else?”
That was a weird question, but he knew why she was asking. “Me, Ilyukhina, and Jakov. If you’re asking because you’re worried we’ve gone crazy like the others, we haven’t. They’re shooting at us, too.”
A slight pause. “How can I be sure? I can’t ID you. Someone blew up the mainframe—”
“That was me,” he said. “The mainframe was compromised, so I…tactically un-compromised it.”
A brief moment of silence. Then she said, “How do I know you’re not one of…them?”
“The weirdos?”
“Yeah,” said Chuchnova. “This is your fault! Everything was fine before you got here. I mean, it wasn’t fine, but the Separatists…we could handle them. We could take care of ourselves.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You know,” said Pavlov, “I thought you were one of the weirdos. Jury’s still out on that, by the way.”
She spat onto the ground. “Those monsters butchered my team,” she said, the venom in her tone palpable. “They touched them, and then they changed. Some of them. He killed the rest. I came down here to take care of the…” She hesitated, trying to find the right word. “Remnants.
That surprised him. “Wait, everyone else is crazy or dead?”
“Yes. The blonde one, Tomlin…he came into the barracks with his rifle, and he…” She took a ragged breath. “I heard the shooting from my quarters. I saw the people he’d touched and made crazy. I slipped out through the air vent just in time. Now I’m here. I’m the only one left.”
There was no need to hear anything more. “I’m coming out,” Pavlov said. “I’m going to have my hands up, and I’m going to ask real nicely that you don’t do anything real stupid.”
“Okay,” said Chuchnova.
Cautiously, Pavlov propped his weapon up against the wall and stepped out into the corridor, hands at eye level, and stared down the barrel of Chuchnova’s rifle.
CHAPTER 17
Corridor
Hammerfall
“OKAY,” SAID PAVLOV. TIME TO see if Chuchnova was crazy or not. He stood in the hallway with his hands up. “I’m here. Like I said.”
For a second, he thought, genuinely thought, she might shoot him. Her finger was curled around the trigger of her hunting rifle, the barrel pointing straight at his chest. She sat there, clearly undecided.
Finally, finally, she lowered the gun. “Okay,” said Chuchnova. “Okay.”
Pavlov tried his best smile. “Well, it’s not always that a woman ends up pointing a gun at me after I reject her. Not always.”
She laughed, which was a good sign. Nervous laughter. But better than nothing. “Yeah,” said Chuchnova. “Right.”
He extended his hand, helping her up from her prone position. She took it, grasping firmly, and Pavlov pulled her forward, extended his leg, and tripped her onto her chest.
Chuchnova landed with a rough thud, the wind blown out of her. Pavlov crouched over her, placing his knee into the small of her back and using the weight of his body and armour to pin her. He grabbed Karpola’s helmet and jammed it onto Chuchnova’s head.
She groaned and kicked feebly, but Pavlov held it on while the sensors adjusted. Finally, the data began to flow in. Accelerated heart rate and high amounts of adrenaline—that was all normal—and most tellingly…Delta brainwaves in the no
rmal range.
“Sorry,” he said, letting her up. “We just have a way of checking to see if someone’s gone crazy.”
Chuchnova spat an entirely deserved, but remarkably creative, string of insults at him as she pulled off the helmet, her breath coming in dry wheezes.
As she recovered, Ilyukhina and Jakov came out from the passage behind him.
“Did you really have to hurt her?” asked Jakov, regarding Chuchnova with a critical eye. “We need her to be able to move…”
“We need her to not be crazy,” said Pavlov.
Chuchnova propped herself up into a sitting position, glaring at him. Pavlov merely shrugged.
“I was thinking,” he said, “that there’s something in the air here. It messes with people’s Delta brainwaves. Everyone who has the crazy has these distortions. I needed to be sure.”
“Thanks,” she wheezed, slowly climbing to a standing position.
“Your shooting stance is shit,” said Ilyukhina, eyeing Chuchnova with a critical eye. “Firstly, keep the stock of your rifle pressed firmly up against your shoulder.”
“Okay,” she said, straightening her back.
“Secondly…” Ilyukhina stepped right up to Chuchnova, used her hand to point the rifle toward Pavlov’s breastplate, and pulled the trigger. The round struck his chest armour and screamed as it ricocheted down the corridor.
“You’re going to need more than that to punch through our gear,” she said, letting the gun go. “And the crazy ones of us have the same stuff. You couldn’t have hurt us if you tried.”
Chuchnova’s face went white. “Fuck me in the arse with a lit candle,” she said. “What should I do? If I meet them, I mean? This 6-1 rifle is all we have…”
Pavlov considered. “Honestly, the best thing you could do is try to draw their fire. Let our heavy weapons take care of them. Your 6-1 is Soviet strong, comrade, but it can’t penetrate spetsnaz armour.”
Her eyes flicked to his weapon. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare one of those, would you?”
Would that they did. Pavlov’s had a hole in it. “Sorry,” he said. “These things weigh a tonne. Let alone the ammo. Plus, they’re linked into our armour, so you wouldn’t be able to unlock its true potential anyway.”
She seemed to accept that, giving only a little nod. “Right. I guess I’ll make do with what I have.” She gave a lopsided grin. “Maybe I can annoy them to death, yes?”
“Well,” said Pavlov, “there is one other thing.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “We’re leaving. Come with us. That rifle might bounce off spetsnaz armour, but it will, actually, kill Separatists. And they’re still out there.”
Chuchnova clicked on her safety. “I was actually about to suggest getting out of here, too.”
“What about your research?” asked Ilyukhina.
Chuchnova shrugged. “Most of it was on the mainframe, so it’s gone. The rest…well, honestly, we haven’t made much progress in months.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” said Pavlov. “Let’s get going.”
CHAPTER 18
Pavlov’s Cell
YANOVNA TURNED TO CHAINSAW. “AND you had no indication that anything like this was happening on the surface?”
“Nope,” she said, her voice muffled through the thick plastic that separated the two cells. “I never even stepped foot inside the building and was long gone by the time the shooting started.” There was a slight pause, as though Chainsaw was remembering some new detail. “Although, maybe that other thing might be worth following up on.”
“What other thing?” asked Pavlov, the ache in his head coming back.
“Well,” said Chainsaw. “On the way back to the Varyag, something weird happened…”
* * *
Cockpit
Dropship Anarchy
Chainsaw always loved breaking atmosphere. There was something about cresting that threshold between planet and space that made her day; the way the stars shone, bright and not twinkling, a sea of dots in a blanket of black ink.
But this time, her ship needed her attention instead of the stars. A flashing light on her console, an amber caution light on a grid otherwise unlit.
Anarchy was a good girl. The kind of slightly geeky, skinny girl with glasses who never had any friends in the factory but had a kind heart and was always there for you, no matter what. So to hear her complain was a problem. Especially because the flashing light was an overweight warning.
Which made, like, even less sense than she expected. They had dumped nearly a tonne of ammunition during the battle, according to the number of rounds that they’d expelled, but a discrepancy had been detected. Anarchy was carrying eighty-two kilos more than they should have. The ship hummed quietly as it sailed toward the Varyag. If it wasn’t for that light, everything would be perfect.
“Anne, what’s with the alarm?” she asked. “Are you getting fat, girlfriend?”
“If I had a digestive system, I might be offended,” said Anne. For a brief moment, Chainsaw swore the AI sounded pissed anyway. “But fortunately for you, I’m a soulless automaton with no feelings to hurt.”
“You said it, not me.” Chainsaw took a shallow breath. “So…the alarm?”
“Right,” said Anne. “We’re carrying some extra weight.”
Wasn’t that what the flashing light told her? “What’s the nature of the extra weight?”
“Not entirely sure,” said Anne. “There’s something in the passenger compartment.”
Well, that sounded distinctly like her problem. Could be one of the spetsnaz left something behind. Could be someone far less friendly did. They were in space now, so the sooner she sorted out this bullshit the better.
Chainsaw unstrapped herself from her chair, and with one last look out the cockpit of her gunship, unlocked the hatch to the passenger compartment.
Empty. Her hammock was still stretched out between the bulkheads. The quiet murmur of the engines—vibrations transmitted through the metal of the ship—was the only noise.
She checked under all the seats. In the overhead lockers. Nothing—certainly not eighty-odd kilograms of nothing.
Then a faint rattle came from the lavatory, followed by a quiet intake of air.
A stowaway.
Chainsaw drew her sidearm, chambering a round. “Come out!” she shouted. “I know you’re in there, arsehole! I’m armed, and believe me, if I have to blast through that door, the Fleet’s going to bill your family for disposing of your corpse!”
“Wait,” said a man in broken Russian. “I want safe…with, with the Russian Team. Safe. Safe. No shoot. No shoot.”
Whoever it was had a thick American accent that made his words almost incomprehensible. Chainsaw struggled to remember her mandatory English training. Something about I before E…
“Who’s in there?” she asked, years-old lessons drifting back into her head. English. Gotta remember… “Come out, or I’ll shoot.”
The relief in the man’s voice was strong as he switched to English. “Thank God. Thank God. Listen, I’m sorry I snuck aboard. I am. Just get me away from Syrene.” Slowly, slowly, the door opened.
A guy, barely in his teens. Dirty. Wide-eyed. Hungry. Tall, but kind of chubby, with flaps of loose skin, as though he had lost a lot of weight in a short time. Yellowed teeth.
The kid jerked his hands fearfully toward the ship’s roof. “Don’t shoot.”
Chainsaw lowered her pistol. Not a threat. “How did you get aboard my ship?” she asked. “This vessel is the property of the Russian Confederation. Trespassing is, how do you say, forbidden.”
“I know,” said the kid. “I know. I had to escape. This was my only chance to get away, get offworld.”
That was entirely reasonable: a dirt farmer trying to escape a war that didn’t concern him. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Jason,” he said. “Jason Truby.”
That caught her attention. “Truby? You’re an American?”
&nbs
p; “Yeah,” said Jason. “My dad’s a UE officer.” His eyes flicked away for a moment. “Or…he was.”
Chainsaw stiffened slightly. “There are UE agents on Syrene?”
Something shifted in Jason’s eyes. A fear Chainsaw didn’t understand. “Not anymore.”
“What happened to them, to your dad? Killed in the fighting?”
The kid was silent for a bit. “They are the fighting,” he said, his tone gilded in fear.
CHAPTER 19
Pavlov’s Cell
“WHAT HAPPENED TO THAT KID?” asked Pavlov.
“What do you expect? I turned him over to shipboard marines once we docked. I’m a pilot, not military police.”
That was fair enough. Pavlov ran his hands through his hair. “Well, hopefully he can corroborate some of this.”
“Doubt it,” said Chainsaw. “The kid didn’t want to talk to me much. Or anyone. Honestly, I’m surprised he’s not here in a cell with all of us.”
He probably should be. Doubt trickled through Pavlov’s mind. That kid…what had he seen? Where was he now?
“Anyway,” said Yanovna. “So, Lieutenant Pavlov. You and the loyal members of your squad, along with the lead scientist, were leaving the building.”
“That’s right,” said Pavlov. “We made our way straight to the outside. There was no point in staying around, as everyone else was either dead or crazy. And then things got quiet for a bit…”
* * *
External exit
Hammerfall
It took them ten minutes or so to make their way to the surface, but when Pavlov finally cracked open the thick, armoured door, the light of the midday sun stung his eyes, and the stench of the jungle forced its way into his nostrils.
He took a swig from Apalkov’s flask to ward off the inevitable memories of Minsky, quickly replacing it. “Maybe this is why they went crazy,” he said, taking a step into the mud, his boots squelching as he sank up to his ankle. “I forgot how shitty it is out here. The heat must cook Russian brains.”
