by Brad C Scott
“Yep. He’s Steel Centurion Zeta, Outer Rings Defender!” she dramatizes.
“Right. I knew it.”
“No, poor me, all alone at the big party. Just like you, it seems, thanks to me.”
“No one special in your life right now?”
She gives me one of those strange looks only a woman can manage. “I’ll let you know.”
My smile slips with the realization I’ve been grinning at her since she took a seat next to me. I’ve lowered my guard for this enigmatic woman, and I just don’t care. When she’s around, it’s like I can breathe again. The way she’s looking at me now...
“You can call me Mal,” I say.
She smiles like the sun rising. “I adore your costume – Italian sea captain, seventeenth century, gone rogue? You’d cut a fine figure on a rolling deck.”
“That’s not all.” I lift up the eyepatch. “Glass eye, see?”
She leans closer to look, apparently bluffed. That captivating madness is still there in her eyes, glimmering deep. And something more, indefinable, that makes me aware of the painful hollow in my chest.
“You’re dangerous,” she says, leaning back to break the spell.
“On occasion,” I say. But so are you.
She looks over and fixes her eyes on something that turns her face stony.
I follow her gaze toward one side of the dance floor and notice the woman in the skimpy devil costume looking but not looking. The one I marked before, probably Tami’s partner.
“We’re being watched,” says Samantha.
“How’d you know?”
She shrugs and grins mysteriously.
“It’s always the innocent-looking ones,” I say.
“I’m ‘innocent-looking,’ am I?”
No, I think, locking eyes with her, not at all. I get to my feet and bow, extending a hand. “Fair lady, would you do me the honor?”
She takes my hand. “A walk in the moonlight would be lovely, gentle sir.”
She gets to her feet and puts her arm in mine. Together, we make our way back through the premises and out the front to stroll the street away from the press of eager bodies and prying eyes. The chill air and quiet are a blessed relief, her presence next to mine a long-forgotten comfort. Her SMART drone, Gypsy, soon heels us at a discrete distance.
“Thanks for saving me,” I say.
“I can’t dance.”
“Me neither, that’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” She sighs. “Fate plays strange tricks.”
“Fate, is it? I thought you were stalking me.”
She remains silent and thoughtful.
“Thank you again for all you’ve done for Patton,” I say. “I’m in your debt.”
“This isn’t about obligation. Gypsy has scrambling engaged, the night air is perfect, and we’re alone. A chance like this might not come again.”
A chance for what? Walking forward, arms linked, I look in her eyes and see the truth: she’s not interested in small talk, but in me. What she desires, though… My past is a subject best left redacted. Revealing it won’t help matters.
And then it hits me: this is no longer a polite conversation. It’s well past that. This is life or death.
Which will I choose?
“What do you want to know?” I ask.
Our stroll in the moonlight becomes an hours-long conversation. We never make it back to the party. Grudgingly, I crack open floodgates that hold back an ocean, sharing more of my insides with her than with anyone since my wife’s death. She does not turn away, but takes it all in and then reciprocates in kind.
I was right about her. She hides her darkness well.
Neither one of us should still be drawing breath.
And when we kiss… For the first time in years, I’m glad that I still am.
PART 3
FALSE FLAG
CHAPTER 21
Justice has sheathed Her sword. Her blindfold’s gone, slipped off and cast aside like a whore’s clothing.
Tapping the hull with my fists, it’s all I can do not to lash out. The gesture helps reign in the rage, redirects it, reminding me of all the boxer’s handshakes Worthy and I shared over the years, the respect and conviction before every bout. The purpose. No, this isn’t how it ends. The fight’s tougher than expected, maybe even rigged, but losing battle or not, you go in swinging.
“You should put on gauntlets first,” says Evans.
Unclenching my fists – hell, my whole body – I give her an over-the-shoulder glare. She smiles and returns to ignoring me, serenely reassembling her pistol, a pre-war .45, the kit laid out on the rag-covered holomap console.
“A drink would be better,” I say, dropping into a jump seat. The hovership squad bay has plenty to choose from – Evans and I are the only passengers on this flight out of DC. Unless the ghosts of our dead brethren hitched a ride. Has it been only two months since we flew into LA on this very ship? I picture them here still, that part of my mind that will never let go. Worthy beside me, busting my balls; Murphy there, smirking in the face of absurdity; Anderson, our white knight, flirting with Evans across the holomap console. She was hellbent on flirting back, eyes on the horizon. Now her focus is the gun. Who will pay for that? I start flipping my knife’s blade open and shut, anything to keep my hands busy.
“It’s not too late,” she says. “We haven’t arrived for duty yet.”
“I’ve sworn off.”
She snorts. “Since yesterday?”
Resting my head back against the bulkhead, I soak up the hull vibration while seething over the latest development. Jace just relayed the news: DOJ’s challenge of DRR standing has been upheld. They’ve shut down our investigation into the LA massacre. We’ve respected and relied upon federal law to obtain justice for our murdered companions, but with this ruling from the ninth circuit, its corruption is on naked display. And with the politicization of the DOJ and FBI, their investigations – smokescreens meant to support the cover-up – will get us nothing.
“We’ll get them,” says Evans, slotting her pistol’s slide home.
“This isn’t about vengeance. We have to be clear on that.”
“I guess you’ll have to keep me in check.”
That makes two of us. Redeemer’s Second Oath – justice is imperative and impersonal. Its application takes many forms, reckoning modified by circumstance and severity, but as soon as personal considerations override professional ones, when passion overthrows reason, then it ceases to be justice. A true reckoning serves the ends of restorative and retributive justice, never vengeance. Revenge – personal, extreme, and never impartial – is a road we have to avoid. And there’s the trick – this being personal, the line between retribution and vengeance is inescapably blurred. We’ve no choice, though. Now that the legal system has failed, it falls to us.
“We’ll keep each other in check,” I say. “Blindfold on, sword raised. Vengeance isn’t enough. Worthy and Anderson deserve justice. They all do.”
“Tell that to the attorney general.”
“He’s playing for the wrong team.”
“I thought that was obvious,” she says, setting her pistol on the console. “Before now, I mean. When are we going to LA?”
“St. Louis is where the trail leads.”
The fire in her eyes says she disagrees.
Not that I blame her for doubting – Ghents could’ve been spoon-feeding me bullshit about St. Louis. Only I don’t think he was. When I went to the Director for reassignment to St. Louis, citing the need to follow up a lead on my investigation, he settled for a long, measured look before agreeing. Issued the orders immediately, too, putting us on this flight to provide support to our St. Louis brethren. Not that they need it: reclamation is almost wrapped up there. Officially, we’ll have no role, but his unofficial directive caught me cold: prevent derailment of a peaceful transition during the zone’s repatriation. Clearly, the Director knows of trouble brewing there, not that he’d give me
any specifics, but it’s no stretch to assume Krayge’s group is balls deep. Still, it’d be nice to have more to go on. The “war that has no name” rages, and I don’t even know the sides, let alone the stakes, only that I’m being thrust into the fighting.
“There’s more at stake than reckoning,” I say. “If Krayge and his associates are planning another attack, it’s on us to stop them.”
The hovership shakes through another rough patch, jolting us in our seats. There’s been a fair amount of chop so far, more than usual for clear skies. These ships don’t travel as fast as a plane, but their multi-role design includes a stable flight platform that usually cuts the air better.
“Malcolm,” she says, slotting a clip into her speed loader, “how bad will it be?”
“I don’t know. Our adversaries won’t risk a repeat of the mistakes they made in LA. More dead reclaimers won’t get them what they want. They won’t attack us, not openly.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Don’t worry, we’re still likely to get shot at.”
She snorts. “In these clothes?”
I smile at the not-so-subtle homage to our hard suits, called prom suits by experienced wearers. As in, you’d best be ready for a good fucking when you put one on. Ours are packed away in containers in the launch bay, the rigs required for zone work. And given our mission, our versions of business casual won’t cut it. A DRR long coat over a button-down and cargo pants won’t get me through a protracted battle. Nor will her red jacket over jeans outfit. I wonder if her wardrobe choice will change with the news.
“What?” she asks, noticing my stare.
I put the knife away and give her my best smile.
She narrows her eyes at me. “You bastard.”
“That’s right. I was afraid you might jump ship if I told you earlier.”
“Damn right! Malcolm, I’m not…” she trails off.
“Ready? Like I am?” I reach into a pocket and pull out a small box containing her new rank insignia. “Here you go,” I say, handing it over with a smile. “I hereby promote you to reclaimer first class. Congratulations, Kari.”
“But I was just promoted to S-5.”
“The Director granted a special dispensation at my request. You earned it.”
She opens the case and spends a long moment looking at the gold branches, expression a mix of disbelief and resignation. “So this is what it takes to get you to smile?” She stows the case in a pocket and goes back to loading her clips.
But a grin creeps onto her face when she thinks I’m not looking.
◊ ◊ ◊
Riding the deck amidst the flight crew, their three figures seem like prisoners trapped within a chamber of screens, buttons, dials, levers, and other instruments. Cloud cover obscures the forward view, a sea of glowing white streaming past the windscreens.
“How we doing?” I ask.
“ETA in ten, Redeemer,” says Spalleti, tension lacing her tone.
A warning glyph flashes on the cockpit screens. “Problem?”
“Could be,” she admits. “The fuel control unit on one of the engines failed. Our starboard rotor assembly is running on only one engine.”
“So that explains the rough ride?”
“The mission computer adjusted throttling on the port side to compensate. Without the rotors turning at optimal power, flight stability is degraded.”
“Kari!” I yell back toward the squad bay. “Strap yourself in! It might get rough!”
“Got it!” comes her reply.
“Sir?” queries Spalleti, headgear swiveling about to present her black visor.
“Our luck.” I take a seat in the open cockpit seat and strap in.
We pass beneath the cloud layer. The Illinois countryside spreads out below us to the horizon, a patchwork of browns and greens from our current altitude about a mile up, distant St. Louis a copse of pale structures amidst a gray landscape bordered by the twisting blue line of the Mississippi. The skyline’s got an obvious gap, even from this distance, ground zero for the nuclear strike.
“Captain,” says the co-pilot, “mission computer reports auto flight pattern completed.”
“Roger that,” says Spalleti, taking hold of the cyclic stick and collective thrust controller. “Preparing to disengage autopilot. Andrews, keep a close eye on number three.”
“Ready, Captain,” says the co-pilot.
“Disengaging autopilot,” says Spalleti.
The power flickers, every illuminated control and display surface going dark. When it reactivates a moment later, alarm klaxons sound and warning glyphs flash on the cockpit screens. A swift shudder passes through the hull, though our flight profile remains unchanged.
“Report!” shouts Spalleti.
“Captain,” says the co-pilot, “I can’t access diagnostics. Mission computer is unresponsive. I’ve no explanation for the power flux.”
“Autopilot won’t budge,” says Spalleti. “Can you disengage?”
“Negative, Captain, no response.”
“Andrews, what the hell is going on? How much control do we have?”
The hull vibration increases as the drone and whine of the hovership’s rotor blades and turbines amplify. It sounds like all the engines - four turboshafts driving the rotor assemblies and two turbofans for the flight thrusters – are cycling up to peak power.
“Captain, I can’t access any of the flight systems!” shouts the co-pilot.
“Try disengaging the thrusters,” says Spalleti.
“Nothing, Captain. We’re completely locked out.”
“Carson,” says Spalleti, “how about you?”
“Same thing,” says the navigator, “nav is unresponsive.”
The hull gives a hard shake. An ominous searing whine sounds from aft.
“Captain, report!” I shout.
Her headgear swivels my way. “We’ve lost control of the ship.”
Not the sort of thing you want to hear while you’re in one.
As seen through the tremoring forward screens, the St. Louis skyline gets sharper, the individual buildings clearer. The tallest building in the city, the Freedom Tower, is a radiant monolith of reflected mid-morning light. Even from this distance, there’s a peculiar tilt to it, a slight leaning away from the site of ground zero, the tower forever bowed by that day’s horror. We appear to be descending toward it at overdrive speed.
“Andrews,” says Spalleti, “reboot the mission computer and switch to backup systems.”
“It will take at least a minute for –”
“Do it now,” interrupts Spalleti. “Carson, plot us some alternative landing coordinates.”
“I’m on it, Cap,” says the navigator.
“Captain,” says the co-pilot, “I can’t shut down the main computer. It won’t accept a reboot. We can try a hard boot at the core, but –”
“There’s no time.” Spalleti yanks off her headgear and clunks it aside, running a hand through her short black hair, damp with sweat. “Alright, then. Carson, access the computer core and shut the bitch down. Andrews, get ready to engage backup systems.”
The navigator moves over next to me and tries a hatch on the bulkhead. He pulls at the handle and edges, but it won’t open.
“Carson, get a move on!” shouts Spalleti.
I hand the navigator my knife. He tries an edge with it, but the panel is stuck.
A loud crack sounds from aft and the hovership lurches. Yet another warning klaxon sounds in the cockpit, and a flashing flame icon appears on the cockpit screens.
Shit. We’re on fire.
“Andrews!” shouts Spalleti. “Head aft and put the fire out on number two! Then stand by to dump the fuel on my order, both tanks, do it now!”
The co-pilot unstraps and squeezes past us aft.
I pull my pistol and tap the navigator on the shoulder. As he moves aside, I activate armor-piercing rounds and fire, putting two holes into the metal hatch cover.
The hovers
hip shudders and dips as the engines cycle down with a lurching whine. At the same time, cockpit illumination dims and the warning klaxons go silent. All the holographic displays wink out, as does the overlay over the forward screens, though many of the illuminated console controls still show power. A different audible alarm sounds.
“That did it!” says Spalleti, one hand on the cyclic stick and the other pulling all the way back on the collective thrust controller. “Carson, get the backup systems operational.”
The navigator jumps into the co-pilot’s seat and starts hitting buttons. As he does, I pull the panel off, revealing a small compartment dominated by a black box. Smoke leaks from two holes in its casing. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.
The two big turbofans for long-distance flight go silent. The engines driving the coaxial rotor assemblies follow a few moments later, leaving nothing but the decreasing clatter of the blades and the one cockpit alarm. We’re coasting on momentum only.
“Backup systems are unresponsive, Cap,” says the navigator. With a sinking feeling, I see them pause to stare at each other.
Downtown St. Louis expands across the forward screens, the battered towers revealing the scars that only distance could hide. Some flaunt jagged gaps in their sides and the ragged scarring dealt by the shock wave and explosively-propelled debris during the nuclear attack. Other skyscrapers appear cratered, the leavings of tank shells and missiles during the Revolution.
“Captain, sitrep,” I say.
“The situation is this, Redeemer – we’re going in the hard way. Without backup systems, we can’t re-engage the engines. We can land with autorotation, but there’s no guarantee we’ll walk away. You’ll proceed with the others to the launch bay, put on chutes, and abandon ship. I need to stay with him to so he doesn’t crash in a populated area.”
“Cap,” says the navigator, “we’ve got manual control on the lift jets. You shouldn’t –”
“That’s an order! You too, Redeemer – this is my ship, my command, remember?”
I shake my head. “With all due respect, Captain, we’re staying. Now, what do we do?”
She gives me a scathing over-the-shoulder look, dark eyes wide, nostrils flaring. Then she smiles. I can’t tell whether she’d rather punch me or kiss me or both. “Carson, commsets.”
