Terra Nova- the Wars of Liberation

by Tom Kratman

  It avoided the center of camp, shirking the light, making the faintest sound—mnnbt, mnnbt, mnnbt—and turned away from the cone of light emerging from the trees.

  The two-foot long, red-eyed, hissing nightmare drooled poison as it closed in, beating the air with its green-and-gray splotched wings.

  The stock of the rifle was at his shoulder, cold against his cheek, and his universe shrank to framing the tiny dot at the front of the muzzle against the source of wings flapping just a few feet off the ground.

  Recoil kicked at his shoulder. The front sight followed the moonbat all the way down to the ground.

  He froze.

  There should have been light. And sound. But the sulfur and copper scent reached him first, curling and caressing its way into his lungs.

  Shouting voices chorused behind him, the words muffling through the ringing in his ears.

  He thumbed the safety back on even though he didn’t recall thumbing it off.

  The moonbat lay in a sprawl, an intermittent fountain of blood gushing from its chest. It turned its head towards Juan and blinked its slitted saurian eyes as it foamed at the mouth. Mnnbt—

  Felix drove a spear right through the moonbat’s mouth. “Nice shot.”

  Juan blinked.

  Everyone was up, if in various states of undress, some trailing tangled mosquito netting. All manner of arms were at the ready as they warily scanned the sky. But no wings beat above.

  “Damn!” Mitzi swore, rushing past him in a blur.

  Joe had returned. He’d dropped his flashlight, and looked like he’d been spun and landed on his ass. There was a sick, stricken look on his face. Even in the low light, his pallor went from ailing to ashen.

  Mitzi and Felix reached Joe first. Juan moved forward as if gliding in a dream. A small voice chanted—No, no, no—in the back of his mind.

  The rifle’s—his rifle’s—bullet had passed through the moonbat and hit Joe.

  “Give me your shirt,” Mitzi said, her voice steadier than she felt.

  Joe paled as she and Felix lowered the fair-haired gringo to the ground. His left hand was covered in blood and firmly clasped over the wound on his right arm.

  “Hey,” she said, voice soft as she tried to pry his fingers away, “let go. I need to look.”

  Wide, desperate eyes met her gaze.

  “It’ll be all right. Now let me look.”

  He blinked at her, his breathing ragged.

  “Tell me your name.” She’d only heard one shot, and he didn’t appear to have any other injuries, but . . . “Did you hear me?”

  “Joe,” he said. His grip relaxed and the pulse at his throat ebbed.

  Satisfied, she spoke over her shoulder. “Juan, give me your shirt.”

  Juan had dropped the rifle and was as white as a sheet. One thing at a time.

  “Juan, your shirt. Now.”

  She drew her knife and sliced through the fabric of Joe’s sleeve. Blood flowed at a steady rate, rather than escaping in spurts. It looked like a through-and-through.

  “It’s okay, Juan,” Joe was saying. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  Mitzi held her hand out. Fabric dropped into her hand. She pressed the shirt against the wound and used the sleeves as ties. The jolt of the final tug made Joe grunt.

  “Were you hit anywhere else?”

  Joe shook his head. Sweat was beading on his forehead. She felt for a pulse at his wrist. It was weak and fast. She moved his forearm so it lay on his chest and confirmed that he had no other obvious injuries.

  “Get him closer to the fire,” she said.

  She stood, grabbing Juan’s shoulder with a bloody hand and pulling him out of the way so the others could lift Joe.

  There was a pleading look on Juan’s face and his mouth moved without making a sound.

  “It’ll be dawn in a couple of hours. I need more light, but I think”—hope was more like it—“he’ll be all right.”

  Panic rose in his face again as if she’d said that Joe was going to die. He needed something to do or she was going to have two people down, and she couldn’t—

  “I . . .” he stammered.

  “You’re going to make sure he gets plenty of water and stays warm.”

  His mouth snapped shut.

  “Understand?” she asked.

  He took a deep breath, regaining some color and nodded.

  She understood the fear, the guilt, even shared it in some measure. What had she been thinking, bringing these boys out here? She’d been thinking there were more lives at stake here than their own. Far more.

  Felix had had the presence of mind to grab one of the first-aid kits the gringos had brought along. He passed it to her.

  By the fire, Joe was wrapped in blankets, his eyes glassy with pain as she knelt at his side. Juan encouraged him to sip water from a canteen. The stricken, panicked look was gone, replaced by a frowning, grim determination. Good. Grim was better than panicked. Or useless.

  Mitzi ripped through layers of packaging and found some pills meant for head and muscle aches, but no antibiotics. She set aside the emergency bandage. Sunrise was only a few hours away.

  “Take these,” she said, handing Joe the pills.

  He swallowed them, his throat straining with effort. “It’s really not that bad. I’ll be fine.”

  She smiled. “You’ll live.”

  There was nothing else to do. Not until dawn. Miro was watching the skies, musket in hand. Palala had calmed down the animals, and the gringos were focused on their friend. Felix could keep an eye on them for a few moments.

  She didn’t want to be here when the adrenaline hit. It always did, after, and turned her into a shaky mess. The last thing these gringos needed to see were her tears. She grabbed the nearest torch and headed for the river to wash off the blood from her hands.

  It’s not as if the loss of a stranger was the worst thing she’d faced. She’d thought it would get easier with time. It certainly seemed to have worked that way for her father.

  Here I am, wishing I was like him.

  She planted the torch in the soft sand of the riverbank, and let out a sound full of loathing as she dropped to her knees. Water wasn’t enough though. She scooped up sand and worked it into her skin until it was raw.

  She’d have continued scrubbing until it was too much to bear, but a shadow fell across the water.

  “Go away. I’m almost done,” she said.

  The shadow remained. She stood and spun, ready to vent her anger at the silhouette. All she needed was a few moments. Just a few.

  Juan stood there as the torchlight played across his face. Anger swelled—the last thing she wanted was his whining apology. She could give him neither reassurance nor vindication. Her reserves for those kinds of things had been drained long ago.

  She took a half step, determined to go around him, but he blocked her way. His shoulder was still stained with blood. And then his arms were around her, and her cheek was against his chest, and the blood no longer mattered.

  She felt like a string that had been stretched to the breaking point. Something in her chest vibrated too. Something she’d buried long ago. Something that shouldn’t be alive, because having it be dead was the only way to survive.

  He never said a word. Not one. He simply held her as the salt of her tears mixed with the salt of his sweat, mixing to stain her lips and linger on her tongue as she breathed in his calming scent. His embrace became a welcome cloak of warmth and safety. For the first time since she’d set foot on Terra Nova, she felt . . . safe.

  Foolish madness.

  She pushed him away and instantly regretted the loss of contact. His mouth was set in a tight line as he held her gaze.

  Her life had no room for such sentimentality, such weakness. He was a boy who could barely take care of himself and would be far better off—happier and safer—back home among his soft friends, his bevy of siblings, and his many mothers. He would be out of her life in a matter of weeks, months at most.<
br />
  She swiped the wetness off her face and offered him nothing but a chin raised in defiance.

  I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.

  As soon as Terra Nova’s sun lit the clearing, Mitzi removed Joe’s makeshift bandage. A trickle of dark blood had eased her worst fears. A pile of blood-soaked rags lay beside her as she cleaned Joe’s wound. The cholos and gringos hurried through the morning routine as if they were planning on forging ahead in their mission.

  It felt very much like some secret, testosterone-fueled meeting had taken place and the decision not to turn back had been made without her. She should resent it. But she didn’t. The gringos may not be skilled, trained soldiers but they had spirit—even if it was misplaced.

  If all went well, they’d have lost only a few hours of daylight.

  She bound Joe’s wound using the pressure dressing, weaving the fabric through the pressure bar. With steady fingers, she fastened the closure bar and felt for the pulse at his wrist. She grabbed his other wrist for comparison. The beats were strong and steady in both. Her sigh of relief was the most cleansing breath she’d taken since Juan had h—

  “It’s a good thing I’m left-handed,” Joe said.

  She sat back, eyeing him. “You are not left-handed.”

  “I’m ambidextrous,” Joe said.

  “Don’t worry, I can’t afford to send you back. Isn’t there some sort of rule against lying that you should be more worried about?”

  He gave her a rendition of an angelic smile as his face flushed red. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

  A whoop went up by the tree line and Felix rushed into the clearing.

  “Found the flashlight,” he said, holding it up like a trophy.

  Felix ran back and thrust it at Joe.

  “Keep it,” Joe said. “I have extra batteries in my pack.”

  Felix rushed off like a kid with a new toy, which, in a way, he was.

  “That was nice. You didn’t have to do that,” she said.

  “It’s good to see him smile.” He shifted forward.

  She helped him up and tied the sling to hold his arm folded against his chest.

  “Do me a favor,” she said. “Shotguns for the next batch, all right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I think we can arrange that.”

  Juan noticed the slump in Joe’s shoulders just after their mid-morning stop two days later. He nudged Baja closer, bringing her forward from their position at the rear of the train. He’d taken as much of Joe’s workload as he’d been allowed, bristling needlessly whenever anyone took up the extra work that he saw as his penance. The fact that no one blamed him did nothing to assuage his guilt.

  Even the small measure of comfort he’d been able to offer Mitzi had left him conflicted, frustrated, and angry.

  He’d replayed the shooting in his mind over and over, wondering what he could’ve done differently. It always left him with a gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. Had jealousy contributed to his carelessness? Should Joe die, a court might call it manslaughter, not murder, but what if ill intent had guided his hand?

  He’d reacted out of instinct, or so he’d been telling himself. He should’ve just let the moonbat get him and—

  Juan caught Joe as he was about to slip off the saddle. The train came to a stop. Carr and Letham rushed to help ease Joe down. His forehead felt like he was on fire. He moaned and opened red-rimmed eyes.

  “Hey, Juan,” Joe mumbled. “How’d you get up there?”

  Juan put his canteen to Joe’s lips as his friend’s eyes drifted shut.

  Mitzi was at his side, taking Joe’s pulse, her face hard and unreadable, her gaze meeting Juan’s for the first time since she’d pushed him away. But instead of the accusing, angry look he’d expected, she wore that same vulnerability he’d seen in her when she’d run away to wash blood off her hands.

  As she rose, she blinked something out of her eyes. With a few commands she set the Indios in motion. Machetes hacked young trees into poles. A tarp and ropes were set between them.

  Joe was hoisted onto the hastily assembled litter attached to Seda’s saddle, and they were in motion again, the litter’s low end tracing grooves into the dirt.

  That night, Juan tossed and turned as sleep eluded him. He’d taken first watch and had volunteered to take the mid-watch as well, but both Palala and Mitzi had insisted he get some rest. It was Carr’s turn to tend to Joe, and Felix and Miro were keeping watch, while Leatham rested up for the pre-dawn shift.

  Underneath a mosquito net, he turned his back to the center of camp. Maybe the swaying fronds and leaves around him would lull him into some semblance of sleep.

  Motion caught his eye.

  The light from Terra Nova’s three moons silhouetted a hunched figure creeping along the camp’s edge. It darted from shadow to shadow like it was trying to hide.

  He stirred, slow and silent, like a man in slumber, tracking the figure.

  One of the mules made a soft sound and shook its head, then fell silent. The thief eased a bundle off the top of the stacked supplies and scurried off into the jungle.

  Juan rose, pushed the net aside, and followed the crouching form as it made its way through the trees.

  It kept moving, weaving through the trees, straightening as its distance from camp increased. It turned to check over its shoulder and he hid behind a tree just in time to avoid giving himself away.

  His breath caught—Mitzi. What was she doing?

  She set off again, more confident now, tearing through the undergrowth until she reached the primitive road they’d been using, and slowed.

  He lengthened his stride, easily closing the distance over the cleared ground, and grabbed her arm.

  She pivoted, twisting out of his grip. Her hand went for the knife at her belt, but her face lit with relief and the knife whispered back into its sheath.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Going for antibiotics.” Her voice was matter-of-fact as she readjusted the strap of her shotgun and kept walking.

  “Alone?”

  “Yes. Go back, Juan.” She quickened her pace.

  “Why the sneaking off?”

  She took a deep breath. “Go back you stupid gringo.”

  “Yes, I’m a gringo, but you’re the stupid one. Why else would you be sneaking off?”

  She kept walking.

  “Answer me.” He spun her around, bringing them both to a halt.

  She looked up at him, her face hard again.

  “Because sneaking into the UN camp for antibiotics to save the man you shot is a stupid thing to do. But I’m going to do it anyway. I’m going to clean up your mess, gringo. Go back to camp. At least you can be of some use there.”

  She placed her hands against his chest. The shove was as harsh as her words. With a determined stride, she set off.

  He regained his balance and followed. “You’re right. It’s my mess. My fault. That’s why I’m coming with you.”

  She swung around. “You’ll only slow me down. Go back.”

  “If I go back, it’ll be to alert the others so they can stop you.”

  She paled, but didn’t slow. “If they stop me, your friend will die.”

  “Better him than you.”

  She opened her mouth to speak. Her eyes went wide and distant and then her eyebrows drew together. Her gaze sought the road ahead of them.

  “It’s settled then,” he said. “Give me the pack.”

  Before sneaking off, Mitzi had left a note with instructions: they were to continue along their planned route. On a map, she’d marked two possible sites for rendezvous, one in two days and another in three.

  Joe was young, healthy. Three days of fever wouldn’t kill him. A little luck was all they needed. Just a bit.

  The lightly traveled road they’d been using intersected one where tracks from powered vehicles had left their mark. Until now, their little group had done everything to avoid such roads, but she and Juan no l
onger had a choice but to follow where it led—straight into the heart of the UN encampment.

  As they neared the area, she led them upslope so she could get a better look at the changes that had no doubt taken place since she’d last passed through.

  They climbed to a spot overlooking the once-quiet valley. She raised the binoculars to her eyes. The flatter area to the east had been cleared as a landing zone for helicopters, but the pad was empty. Several rows of octagonal tents were clustered west of the clearing, crowding out the few huts that had been the original Balboan village.

  Hoisted above a group of interconnected Red Cross tents that resembled inflatable hangars, the enemy’s baby-blue flag drooped in the still, moist air. Just outside the field hospital, in what looked like a staging area, crates had been stacked.

  She zoomed in. Trixies—about a dozen of them. And nearby, in a giant cage, a smilodon paced, protesting its confinement. Specimens or trophies—they were valuable to someone high enough in the UN hierarchy to risk trapping rather than killing them.

  She smiled.

  Luck seemed to be on their side today. The sun would soon slip behind the mountains and cast the valley in early twilight. The scent from the mess hall announced that dinner preparations were under way. They had to hurry.

  She grabbed Juan’s hand and led him back down to the road.

  There. A grove of tranzitrees, their pretty—but toxic—flowers forming a perfect visual marker. She drew her knife and carved a couple of parallel strips off the bark, just to be sure.

  “What are you doing?” Juan asked.

  “So we can find it later.” She grabbed nearby bushes by their stalks, uprooting them. Juan did the same, adding to her pile.

  She needed something to keep dirt out of the escopeta. “Give me your shirt.”

  He shot her a puzzled look.

  “We need to look like a couple of poor peasants wandering through. The escopeta will give us away.”

  Reluctantly, he shrugged out of his shirt.

  She wrapped it around the escopeta, hid it behind the tree, under the cluster of uprooted bushes, making it look as much like the surrounding undergrowth as she could.