Crawling From the Wreckage

by Michael C Bailey

  They wouldn’t — but Steampunk Leviathan would.

  He drops through the hole and lands with a steely crash. He turns toward me, showing off the nice indentation I left in the center of his chassis, and I could swear I see him scowling at me from behind his bucket of a helmet — but he’s not so interested in me that he spares me more than a glance. Panels slide open on his forearms to expose racks of tiny missiles.

  Sorry, Mr. Corrections Officer, but this place is about to become a shooting gallery, and I don’t want to be here when it happens. I blow open the door to the temporary holding area, drag Tanith in like she was a sack full of dirty laundry, and weld the door in place as all hell breaks loose outside. Missiles shriek and detonate. Mr. Machine Gun opens fire in return.

  “Candy!” Anzo cries. He emerges from a cluster of men in jumpsuits all trying their best not to look like they’re cowering against the far wall. He shoves the guard out of the way and scoops Tanith up in his arms like a child. “Oh, God, Candy,” he moans, then he looks at me. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Later,” I say. “Hey! Is there another way out of here?” I ask the guard. “Like a fire exit or something?”

  “This is jail, kid, not a movie theater,” the guard says. “There’s only one way out and it’s through that door.”

  Unless you possess the ability to walk through solid matter, like our next special guest star. One of the prisoners lets out a high-pitched yelp as Wyte Zombi phases through the wall. He strides toward me with all the unearthly grace and grim determination of a demon straight out of Hell.

  How lucky for me, then, I know someone with diabolical connections herself.

  The light in the room turns inside out, the air pressure changes, and Dr. Enigma teleports into the dead center of the pod with Nina Nitro under her arm. Astrid gestures, flicking her fingers at Wyte Zombi, but nothing happens — or so it seems.

  “All yours, babe,” Astrid says.

  Nina meets Wyte Zombi’s charge, leaps at him, and throws an elbow strike at his head — and she connects. Hot damn, Astrid’s turned him solid. Wyte Zombi reels, his face reading as much of shock as of pain. Nina follows with a rapid-fire series of punches that culminates with a stiff uppercut that drops Wyte Zombi like a bad habit.

  “What else you got for us?” Nina says, ready for her next victim.

  “More fun than people like us should be allowed to have. Astrid, I need you to get those two out,” I say, gesturing toward Anzo and Tanith. “Get them as far away from here as you can and sit on them.”

  “On it,” Astrid says.

  “Are you up for it?” Nina says. “You just teleported the two of us all the way from Boston. You must be wiped.”

  “I said I got it,” Astrid snarls before blinking out with her charges.

  “Jeez, what crawled up her butt and died?” I say.

  “Don’t ask me, kiddo, I just work here,” Nina says. “What’s the play?”

  “While I’d love to say let’s stay right here and let Massacre and Vendetta take each other out, that’s going to leave a lot of corpses on the ground, and I’m kind of sick of my life having a body count. We’re going out there, and if you see anyone you’re not on a first-name basis with, pacify the bejesus out of ‘em.”

  “Cool.”

  I burn through my welds and throw the door open.

  The hole in the ceiling has spread down to the wall. Daylight, along with the din of a raging battle, pour through a giant crevice. Steampunk Leviathan lies sprawled on the floor, twitching. The suit is riddled with bullet holes. I can’t tell if the dark puddle spreading beneath him is oil or blood.

  Nina scrambles over Steampunk Leviathan while I take to the air to get an eyeful of the utter chaos that’s spilled out of the facility and onto the grounds. It’s a total free-for-all between Massacre, Vendetta, and, thank God, the Squad and the Protectorate. It’s impossible to tell who, if anyone, has the upper hand. All I know is a half-dozen people or so are flat on the ground, unmoving, and none of them belong to me. The scorecard gets another point in our favor when Concorde knocks La Rabia out of the sky with a close-range concussion blast. She crash-lands at the edge of the battlefield, kicking up clods of grass. That leaves Skyblazer as Vendetta’s only remaining flyer.

  Massacre Version 2.0, however, is picking up the slack there. Three people in matching armored suits with a heavy anime aesthetic strafe me with some sort of energy weapon. The shots that connect sting, but they don’t do any damage. My attackers rocket skyward, their boot jets roaring.

  I give chase and catch up to the anime trio quickly enough. As I close the gap between us, the ones in the yellow and blue suits split off with Blue Angels-level precision, while the one in the red suit holds his (or her) course. Yellow and Blue arc around, intending to flank me from the rear. Yeah, good luck with that amateur hour stuff. I send energy blasts their way, figuring that should take them out quick and easy — and then the Hubris Fairy decides to pay me a visit. Yellow and Blue absorb my shots and never slow down or change course. Worse, when they return fire, it doesn’t just sting; it friggin’ hurts. I haven’t felt pain like that since I fought Galt.

  No wonder; they just zapped me with my own zap. They’re using my powers against me.

  I change tactics and throw a blast of pure concussive force at Blue as he closes in. That works out a bit better; the impact knocks him off course, but he recovers almost immediately and joins Yellow in trying to catch me in a crossfire. I dodge their attack, and the only thing that saves me from flying right into Red’s salvo like a stupid rookie is some good old-fashioned timely intervention — from Skyblazer. He sucker-punches Red, metaphorically speaking, nailing him in the back with a concussion blast that sends him spinning out of control.

  “Don’t use your energy attacks!” Skyblazer says as he hurtles through the sphere of engagement. “The suits were designed specifically to counter your powers!”

  Thanks, I figured that part out already. What I can’t figure out is what the hell you’re up to.

  Skyblazer swings around, wildly lobbing concussion blasts at the Primary Colors Gang. His aim has gone downhill — or has it? It almost seems like he’s trying to distract them rather than hit them — and if that’s the case, it works; Red, Yellow, and Blue all forget about me and train their weapons on the guy who’s making a decent little side-career for himself in betraying his allies.

  Whatever. It’s an opportunity, and I’m taking it.

  I burst into the middle of the firefight to try a trick I don’t get to use often. I set off a massive electromagnetic pulse, hoping that the Primary Colors Gang’s suits aren’t too heavily shielded — and hey, guess what? They aren’t. Neither is Skyblazer’s, as it turns out, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s still playing for the wrong team, so better to take him out with the rest of the bad guys than risk him flipping sides yet again.

  Once they go into freefall, I zip to each of the Primary Colors Gang in turn and push them into a tight cluster. Red, Yellow, and Blue hold onto each other for dear life. They don’t try to reach out to Skyblazer, and he doesn’t reach out to them. Instead, he calmly levels out and spreads his arms and legs to slow his fall, exactly like I taught him. I’d be proud of him if I didn’t hate his guts so much.

  I let them plummet for a good long time to instill them with a healthy fear of Lightstorm and then whip up an anti-gravity field to slow the last bit of their descent. Skyblazer lands on his feet. The others collapse to their hands and knees, trembling violently. Yellow yanks off his helmet so he can vomit.

  “All of you, out of the armor, now,” I say, and the Primary Colors Gang dutifully start to strip out of their suits. “You too,” I say to Skyblazer.

  “Carrie, please listen to me,” he says. “You have to trust me.”

  “I said take the suit off, Dennis,” I growl through clenched teeth.

  “I’m on your side, I swear to God.”

  “I SAID TAKE IT OFF!”

/>   Skyblazer retreats, his hands shooting up as if in surrender — probably because he’s one wrong word away from getting incinerated where he stands. Supercharged plasma vapor wafts from my outstretched hand. Even with the protection of his visor, Skyblazer has to turn away from the glare. That’s right, you son of a bitch — cower. You betrayed my trust. You attacked me. You threatened to kill me and hooked up with a gang of murderers. You’re not my ally. You’re not my friend. You’re The Enemy. I don’t owe you any sympathy. I certainly don’t owe you any mercy.

  I shudder violently and a sound almost like a sob escapes my lips. I power down and drop my hand. I don’t owe him any mercy, but I’m going to give it to him anyway.

  I have to.

  “Take the armor off, Dennis.”

  Slowly, he removes his helmet and drops it to the ground. There’s such remorse in his eyes, such regret. I can’t find it in me to care.

  “Lightstorm, do you copy?” Concorde says.

  “I’m here. Go ahead.”

  “We have the situation at Plymouth contained, more or less. We’re chasing down a few runners but everyone else has been pacified.”

  “Add four more to the prisoner count. I have half of a gay pride flag here. And Skyblazer.”

  “I see,” Concorde says after a brief pause. “Can you hold them until I can send the Pelican out for a pickup?”

  “Consider them held. See you soon. All right, people,” I say to my captives, “the Protectorate’s coming to take your sorry asses into custody, so have a seat. And I strongly advise you all to play nice. I have had a royally craptacular day and I won’t hesitate to take it out on your kneecaps if you give me any grief.”

  Red, Yellow, and Blue, now down to their civilian clothes, obediently sit on the grass amidst their dismantled suits.

  “Carrie,” Dennis says.

  “I said sit down and shut up.”

  Dennis sinks to the ground like he’s deflating. He doesn’t say a word. He just sits there and stares at me like a whipped puppy.

  THIRTY

  Now that we’ve had time to secure the prisoners and conduct some quickie preliminary interviews, let’s unpack this jumbo gift basket full of crazy, shall we?

  Edison’s plan to lure out Vendetta was on its way to working exactly as he’d envisioned. Vendetta, who had been traveling the country in a ragtag convoy of RVs and box trucks, made a beeline to Plymouth immediately following Edison’s press conference and set up base camp at a local trailer park (how’s that for a mental picture?), intending to strike the next time Anzo and Tanith went to court. Because they were in the habit of monitoring local first responder channels, they overheard the correctional officers freaking out when the giant economy-sized version of Massacre attacked. Faultline made the snap decision to take advantage of the situation and kill multiple birds with one stone, which is how I got stuck in the middle of an all-star bad guy battle royale.

  Several correctional officers were injured, some badly, but there were no fatalities among the guards or civilian staff. Vendetta and Massacre didn’t get off so easy. Steampunk Leviathan, Redcap, and Maxxar were killed in action, along with one-half of ThunderStorm and three more of Massacre’s people.

  And then there are the MIAs. Wyte Zombi and Mentallica are gone, as is Skadi and God knows how many more from Massacre. Until we get a chance to interrogate our prisoners properly, we can only guess at how large Massacre’s full roster was.

  Long story short, we’re going to be dealing with this mess for a long time — and Faultline, sore loser that he is, is determined to make things as ugly as possible.

  “I can’t wait to see the press conference for this one,” he smirks as we load him onto a packed-to-capacity Byrne transport.

  “How lucky for you, then, the cells in Byrne have TVs,” Concorde says before slamming the transport door shut.

  “He’s going to be a problem, isn’t he?” I say.

  “No more or less than anyone we arrest. Granted, he knows the game better than most, but it helps that we already have one person ready to testify against him.” He pauses. “Speaking of whom, Dennis would like to talk to you.”

  I stiffen. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

  “I know, but I think you should hear him out.”

  “Why? There’s nothing he can say that can possibly excuse what he did.”

  Concorde lays a hand on my shoulder. “Hear him out.”

  ***

  I find Dennis in the bay of the Pelican, slumped in one of the passenger seats. He jumps to his feet as I enter.

  “Concorde said you wanted to talk to me,” I say, shutting the bay door behind me. “So talk.”

  “I didn’t betray you,” he says. “I swear I didn’t.”

  “No? Sure felt like it.”

  “I didn’t betray you, Carrie, I — I panicked. I thought Vendetta was going to kill you, so I pretended to switch sides.”

  “Oh, please,” I say with an empty laugh. “I was there, remember? I heard you say you were going to kill me.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “You said —” I begin, but then my memory pulls the rug out from under me. What he said was, Run, or you’re going to die. It wasn’t a threat; it was a warning.

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” Dennis says. “Vendetta wanted me so I gave them what they wanted.”

  “Let’s say for the sake of argument you’re telling the truth. Did it ever occur to you to contact me once you were in? Maybe let me know where you were? If you were okay?”

  “I gave my helmet to Faultline to convince him I was on their side. Besides, if they caught me trying to contact you, they would have killed me. I had to wait until they made their move on the prison.”

  “Correctional facility.”

  “You know what I mean. I tried to warn you we were coming. You didn’t respond.”

  I glance at my headset’s HUD. It shows one incoming comm signal from Dennis, which I missed because I was at the time extremely preoccupied. Trying not to get killed tends to demand one’s full attention.

  His story holds together. Then there’s the fact he helped me fight off the Primary Colors Gang, and that he’s standing here with me and not on his way to Byrne with the rest of Vendetta. I have every reason to believe him. I should be relieved he’s not a traitor. I should be overjoyed.

  I should be.

  “Carrie, I am so sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “I know. But you did.” I clench my fists, digging my fingernails into my palms as hard as I can because I absolutely refuse to start crying. “I thought you’d given up.”

  “Carrie —”

  “When I mentioned your brother, you completely lost it. You weren’t acting; you were legitimately pissed at me.”

  He hesitates. “Yes. I was. You threw Kyle in my face and I was so angry at you for that.”

  “So much that you almost threw in with Vendetta for real?”

  He hesitates again, for what feels like an eternity. “I thought about it. But I didn’t,” he adds quickly. “I couldn’t do that to you.”

  “That’s the thing, Dennis; you did it to me anyway.” I turn to leave. Dennis reaches for me. “No,” I say, pulling away.

  “Carrie, please, I want to make this right. Tell me what to do.”

  “Leave me alone. I can’t deal with this right now. I can’t deal with you right now and I need you to back off. Way off.”

  I step outside and seal him back inside the Pelican. Sara leans against the hull, arms crossed.

  “How’d it go?” she asks.

  “He talked. I listened,” I say.

  “I was with Concorde when he questioned Dennis. He’s telling the truth.”

  “I know he is.”

  “He was in an impossible situation. He made what he believed was the best possible decision — and he made it to save your life.”

  “I know.”

  “And he is sorry for hurting you.�
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  “I know. But I’m not ready to forgive him. I don’t know if I can.”

  “That’s fair. You need to come to that in your own time, if you come to it at all,” Sara says, putting an arm around me. “I’d just hate for you to write him off completely. He’s a good guy.”

  A tear slips down my face.

  “I know.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  I spend most of Friday sleeping. Really sleeping, I mean, hard and deep and long, and in my own bed. It’s mid-afternoon by the time I wake up feeling badly in need of a shower and some food. I shower but hold off on eating since I have a dinner date with Mom at the Brazilian barbecue place, and I want to go in primed and ready for maximum pigging out.

  Dinner is fun and relaxing and more than a little weird. I sacked out right after Sara and I got home from Plymouth, so this is Mom’s first opportunity to grill me about the day — although it’s hardly a grilling. She’s asked me how school went with more interest — which isn’t to say she’s unconcerned, it’s just that her level of concern is disproportionate to the danger I was in. She totally accepts that this is my life. Like I said, it’s weird.

  Weird, but comforting. I’d almost go so far as to say it feels normal.

  “Oh, I spoke to Edison today,” Mom says through a mouthful of pork loin, fresh off the skewer, served to us by a handsome man who’s been making eyes at my mother all night. I may have to incinerate him.

  (I know, I know, mutual respect for life choices. Baby steps.)

  “Work stuff?” I say.

  “You stuff, actually.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “He asked me and Sara to make sure you file your report at headquarters tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Okaaayyy...”

  “Edison’s organizing a welcome home party for you.”