Blue Guardian

by S. J. Madill

  A loud crack brought Zura's attention back to the thundering wreck descending toward the ground. It was still some distance out over the sea, but was approaching quickly. The sea below the falling ship was peppered by white splashes, as large and small pieces of the ship fell and slammed into the water, or bounced along the surface before stopping with a final splash. Still no sign of the second ship.

  "Pelaa," said Zura, "did Kahala Hila make contact with Major Roche?"

  "Checking," said Pelaa. "No, Mahasa. Kahala Hila has not been able to re-establish contact."

  "Very well," said Zura, frowning inside her helmet. Roche wouldn't know she was still on the colony with her squad, and she wasn't going to break radio silence to tell him.

  The ground trembled under their feet, and the loud rumble became a crackling howl. The ship was upside down, still turning, facing backwards as it came. The churning fireball clung to the leading edge of the ship, peeling away engine cowlings and stern plates, throwing them aside and letting them fall toward the sea. Thick plumes of greasy black smoke poured from the burning ship, leaving a darkened trail through the air in its wake. Zura stepped back behind the building as the ship reached the shore and came over dry land.

  For a moment, her view of the ship was blocked by the warehouse building. Then it emerged, a hundred paces away, a shattered hull wreathed in flames. In addition to the roar overhead, Zura heard the pattering sound of approaching rain. A shower of tumbling debris fell over them, individual bolts and fragments of metal pinging off the warehouse roof. Larger pieces bounced across the fields, spinning and trailing spirals of smoke as they tumbled. The ground trembled, then the warehouse wall burst open between her and Nathal as a blur of red went by. A small pressure tank, still hissing and sputtering, bounced onto the landing pad.

  Behind the stricken ship, a new sound: the piercing whine of starship engines. A second ship was descending, being piloted close behind the flaming wreck. Pulses of blue light flickered in front of the following ship, spreading like waves on a pond. A constant barrage of debris from the wreck battered at the second ship's forward shields, keeping it lit with a quivering blue glow. Zura grunted in appreciation. They were using their stricken comrades as cover, shielding them from the view of the colony's turret. All the way down to the surface, where the gun couldn't reach them.

  The crackling roar of the burning ship faded, becoming eerily quiet as it approached the ground. Over the fields it tumbled, with panicked cows scattering in their pastures, and the crops flattened to the ground by the wind. The following ship swung around to the north, keeping itself behind the wreck. Zura could see its landing gear descend; they intended to land.

  When the burning wreck's hull touched the ground, it dug in. The ship ploughed along the ground, shoving itself into the base of the ridge. It pivoted, turning over, ejecting a burning engine over the ridge-line to the valley beyond. The ground rumbled and shook, and the wrecked vessel came to rest, upside down on the slope of the ridge, still burning and belching a rising column of thick black smoke. Through the smoke, Zura could see the second ship landing, close behind the wreck.

  Pelaa's voice filled her helmet. "Orders, Mahasa?"

  All that lay between the the warehouse and the burning ship was a series of farm fields, and a single robot-maintenance building. Smoke rose from dozens of points throughout the fields, where flaming debris had come to rest.

  "Our only cover is that building," she said, pointing. "Move to there. We'll set up an ambush."

  Pelaa and Antur were already moving, and Zura broke into a run to keep up. "We'll take them prisoner if we can," she said. "But if they start shooting, we kill them all."

  "Yes, Mahasa."

  Leaving the corner of the warehouse, they ran across the edge of the landing pad. One light pole leaned drunkenly, and the still-hissing pressure tank lay in the middle of the pad. Running along the back of the residence modules, they turned into the fields once the maintenance shed shielded them from the view of the ships.

  Nathal reached the fence first, gracefully vaulting it without slowing down. Pelaa and Antur were close behind, and cleared the fence just as easily.

  Zura shuffled her stride to reach the fence on her left foot. Reaching out her hand, she gripped the top of a post and pushed off, clearing both legs over the top of the fence.

  She crashed down, all her weight on her right leg as it slammed onto the ground. There was no pain, no sensation at all, but it took her a few staggering steps to regain speed. Behind her, Irasa cleared the fence with a gentle hop.

  The five of them raced across the field, through the knee-deep plants. The columns of smoke were coalescing into a low-hanging black haze. In the next field, a fire had begun to spread. Farther away, the cows continued to stampede in circles in their field, their frantic bellowing almost lost amid the roaring of the burning wreckage.

  When they reached the back of the maintenance building, they spread out. Pelaa took Nathal around the left side, while Zura followed Irasa and Antur around to the right. They halted at the corner of the building, Antur crouched down low, Irasa up high. Weapons in hand, they peered around the corner toward the distant ships. Zura leaned forward, putting one hand on Antur's shoulder as she took a look.

  The wrecked ship lay crumpled against the ridge, fire and smoke pouring from its hull. A hatch had opened, and four humans — one clearly injured — had crawled out of the wreckage.

  The second ship had landed some distance beyond. Zura zoomed her visor to get a better look.

  Humans, all of them. Sixteen had emerged from the landed ship. They were all armed. Most of them behaved in a structured way: setting a perimeter, watching for threats, using the cover of their own ship.

  One of them was yelling, making sharp gestures with his hands, stomping around in a rage. Zura couldn't make out what he was saying from this distance, but through the zoomed-in display of her helmet she could see it clearly enough. The human paused a moment, head back as if he was screaming at the sky, then calmed himself as he pulled out a datapad. Before long, he was agitated again, holding up the datapad in front of him as he yelled at it, gesturing wildly with the other hand. He abruptly signed off with some sort of obscenity, then shoved the datapad back in a wide pocket on his leg before turning his attention to his troops.

  "Human mercenaries," said Zura. Working for whoever was on the other end of that datapad.

  She looked again. The leader had a bundle of looped tie-down ribbons on his belt. They all did; all of the humans had identical bundles of tie-downs. "Slavers," said Zura. "Humans coming to take other humans as slaves." She wanted to spit, but just chewed at her lip instead.

  Three of the mercenaries stayed with the landed ship, while the others headed out. One of the survivors of the wrecked ship helped their injured comrade back toward the landed ship, while the other survivors fell in with the rest of the mercenaries. They fanned out, weapons at the ready, and advanced along the slope of the ridge, skirting the colony in the direction of the turret.

  "Look at them," said Zura, ignoring the sneer in her voice. The way they walked. The swagger. The strut. Several of them were so full of rage they bounced on their feet, yelling. They weren't slavers any more: they were murderers. They'd lost a ship — and friends — to a tiny colony on the edge of nowhere. Their pride had been injured and they wanted to reassert themselves, to repair their wounded egos.

  "They're going to kill everyone," said Zura. "They're going to destroy the turret, and then they're going to kill everyone." She brought her carbine up, centering the aim point on the mercenary leader.

  "Mahasa?" came Pelaa's voice.

  "Take aim," she commanded.

  The soldiers with her raised their weapons, leaning further around the corner of the maintenance shed.

  The ridge ran behind the building, barely a hundred metres away. If the mercenaries followed the slope of the ridge, they'd pass within point-blank range. Despite the turret downing one of their ship
s, they weren't being cautious. Their rage and humiliation were overruling their caution. And she was going to kill all of them.

  "Pelaa, try again. Connect me to Roche."

  "Yes, Mahasa." A few moments of silence. "Still no connection. Kahala Hila reports they will keep trying, and will let us know."

  "Very well."

  A single red pinpoint of light, sparkling through the haze and smoke, streaked down from the top of the ridge. It struck one of the mercenaries in the arm, causing the woman to pause in shock and disbelief.

  Five more shots came down from along the ridge, striking the ground among the mercenaries.

  "Contact right!" shouted one of the mercenaries. "Get down!"

  A second salvo of shots came from atop the ridge, followed by less-organised fire. The mercenaries flung themselves to the ground on the slope as the dirt around them was torn up by shots. More shots came down from the top of the ridge. Less accurate with each shot, red points of light flew over the heads of the mercenaries, who started to return fire. A torrent of fire from the mercenaries raked the ridge line, chewing up the dirt. Someone screamed.

  "The colonists have decided to fight," said Zura. She calmed herself and aimed. "And so they should. Open fire."

  The mercenary leader had rolled over on his side, readying a grenade in his hand, when Zura fired. Her carbine gave a light kick against her shoulder, making the barking sound she knew better than her own mother's voice.

  A burst of red erupted from the mercenary leader's chest, near his shoulder. A second gentle pull of the trigger, a second bark of her weapon, and his abdomen burst open. As he rolled over onto his back, arms going reflexively to his stomach, Zura changed targets.

  From around her, carbines spat out their fire in single, precise shots. Zura fired again, and a mercenary's thigh exploded. Chastising herself for sloppy aim, she changed targets again. Seeing her new target was already dead, she sought out another. A crouching woman had her weapon raised, pointed toward the shed where Zura and her troops hid. The woman hesitated, but Zura had already pulled the trigger. The woman toppled over, a messy wound in the middle of her face.

  Zura scanned for her next target, but there were none.

  It wasn't enough. There had to be more. She stepped out from behind the shed, gun up, advancing across open ground toward the scattered bodies of the mercenaries.

  The others were close behind her. "Spread out," ordered Pelaa. "Disarm them all, alive or dead."

  Zura kept approaching, watching the mercenaries through her aiming display. A few were still moving.

  "Mahasa?" asked Pelaa. "Mahasa?"

  "What?" she snapped.

  "Mahasa, their ship is taking off."

  Zura lowered her weapon, turning to look past the burning wreckage slumped against the ridge. Behind it, the second ship was lifting into the air, its nose dipping. It kept rising, moving unsteadily. "Let it go."

  "Mahasa?"

  She spun around to face Pelaa, though he was just an outline in her helmet display. "Let it go, Squad Leader Pelaa. I want it to escape."

  Pelaa's outline bowed to her in the display. "Yes, Mahasa. What of the turret? We still cannot reach Major Roche—"

  Zura jabbed one hand in the direction of the ridge. "Then go tell him in person, Squad Leader." She looked around at the rest of the squad, who were moving among the fallen mercenaries. "Camouflage off. Finish disarming them. Then check the colonists for injuries."

  Zura reached over her shoulder, latching her carbine on her back. She touched a button on her helmet and reappeared, her blue armour shimmering back into view. Around her, her black-armoured squad wavered into view one by one.

  It was all over.

  She walked up to the first of the mercenary bodies lying on the ground. A young woman, lying on her side, curled in the fetal position. A wide pool of blood spread from her abdomen. She was still breathing, but not for long.

  Zura picked her way forward, stepping around the bodies, pausing to kick their weapons away from their hands. A few were alive, but not many. The eerie quiet was broken by the occasional wail of agony. Others merely moaned. One man sat upright, staring at her with blank eyes, his left leg at an awkward angle in front of him. An angry-looking burn mark had burrowed halfway through his thigh, leaving the broken bone exposed. The man made no sound, but watched her as she walked by. Zura always felt it was possible to estimate how badly a human was injured by listening to their screams. The louder the scream, the less serious their injuries.

  The gravelly ground was spattered with blood, and littered with dropped weapons. A few shallow holes smouldered among the bodies, where weapon fire had failed to find its target.

  Zura stepped over a severed arm that lay next to its weapon, and approached the mercenary leader.

  He was a human of middle age, perhaps older, with grey in his close-cropped hair and untidy beard. He lay on his back, one hand clutched against his abdomen, where pink showed between his blood-covered fingers. His other arm lay limp at his side, below the smouldering hole in his shoulder.

  Zura's boots crunched on the ground as she lowered herself to one knee. She was reaching for the pocket on his pant leg, when his eyes fluttered open. He moaned, trying to focus his eyes on her helmet, then froze. He sucked in a gasp, eyes going wide. "Oh, God—"

  "Shut up," said Zura. Her voice was loud inside her helmet; she realised they couldn't hear her. "Nsal 'neth," she muttered, reaching up to turn on the external speaker.

  As soon as everything went dark, she remembered. The next time she saw her armourer Sadan, she resolved to beat him with the helmet. Swearing to herself, Zura ripped off her helmet, tossing it over her shoulder. She ignored it as it tumbled down the slope.

  Zura tugged at the flap on the man's leg pocket, but it resisted. He let go of his abdomen, weakly grabbing at her armoured wrist. "No," he gasped.

  "Shut up," she said, batting his hand away. She yanked again at the pocket flap, which came open. Inside the pocket, Zura saw the edge of the mercenary's datapad and began to pull it out.

  The man was still feebly trying to grab at her hands, fingers grasping at the datapad. "No. It won't help you… it's a Tunnel cell. Can't be hacked—"

  "I know that, you fool. I don't have to hack anything." Leaning back, Zura took a quick look around. "Irasa!"

  Farther up the hill, Irasa looked up. "La, Mahasa," she answered, and began jogging back down toward her. Despite being taller and wider than anyone else, she moved with unexpected grace. "Mahasa?" she rumbled.

  Zura looked way up at the woman standing over her, and handed up the blood-smeared datapad. "Irasa, you're good with these human datapads. This one has a Tunnel cell. Tell me what's at the other end."

  The datapad looked like a credit chip in Irasa's giant armoured hands. She wiped the worst of the bloody fingerprints from the display. "Yes, Mahasa," she said, taking a few steps back. She raised up the datapad, holding it near her face.

  "Please," whispered the mercenary leader.

  Zura turned to look back at him. "Please?"

  "I don't want to die. Please, General—"

  Zura reached down and peeled his hand away from the wound on his abdomen. Pink curls of intestines were crowding at the blackened edges of the wound. Inside was a pooling mess of flesh, intestinal contents and blood. Surprisingly little blood, she thought. "I've survived worse. You'll live." Grabbing his hand, she pressed it back down on the wound. "Long enough to tell me who you're working for."

  "Look," he gasped. "We didn't want anyone to get hurt—"

  Zura grabbed the bundle of tie-down ribbons at the man's waist. She gave them a yank, making him wince. "You came here to take everyone as slaves. When they resisted and downed one of your ships, you decided to kill them all, didn't you?" She tugged the bundle again, harder this time. "I've seen it before. First-hand."

  "It's just—"

  Zura grabbed the man by his battered jacket, pulling him up. "Business?" she hissed. "Is that
what you were going to say? There's no such thing as 'business'. It's people making choices about what they're willing to do for money. And you made your choice."

  The mercenary gasped for breath, blood oozing from the wound in his abdomen. "What… what do you care? We're all just humans to you."

  "Yes," said Zura. She pulled him closer, her face next to his. "But these are my humans. And they will not be slaves."

  Shoving the mercenary back to the ground, Zura stood up. In the entire galaxy, there was no other species that would sell their kin to other species as slaves. And they'd do it for money alone. Humans had the most toxic relationship with money of any race she'd ever encountered.

  She looked over her left shoulder at Irasa. "Progress?"

  "Soon, Mahasa," rumbled Irasa. The giant soldier glanced to her right at something, then at Zura. Zura turned to look.

  Ten paces away, beyond the bodies of the mercenaries, stood Yaella. She was clutching Zura's blue helmet. Her face was blank as she looked up from the nearest body to stare wide-eyed at her.

  Zura felt her shoulders slump. "Child," she sighed. "You shouldn't see this."

  Yaella shook her head, her face and body tight with tension. "I wanted to make sure you were okay," she said in a small voice. "I wanted to see…" She trailed off, her eyes not leaving Zura's.

  Zura nodded. "And now you have. And the sight of it will stay with you. I regret that." She took a look at the bodies on the blood-spattered ground between herself and Yaella. "I'm sorry, Yaella. This is what I do. I told you I wasn't a good person." She reached out a hand. "You may come closer, if you really want. It is safe."

  Yaella just shook her head, still clutching the helmet. She looked away from Zura for a moment, stealing glances at the bodies on the ground.

  A shadow fell on Zura as Irasa stepped closer. "Mahasa, I have had some success."

  "Well done," said Zura.

  Major Roche came into view, descending the slope toward her. He wore a scarred breastplate — probably older than he was — and a Palani-issue pistol shoved in a holster. Zura curled a finger at him, beckoning him closer.