Then his eyes found Mary’s legs.
“Holy Christ.”
“Put the girl down,” said Hatch. “I need you to help me make a litter.”
“Sean, there’s no time for that, you said so your—”
“Shut up!” Hatch’s voice was sharp and bitter. He looked at Mary, apology in his eyes. “Just—we can do this.”
“Stug!” came the call from outside. The sergeant pried his eyes away from Mary’s mangled legs to see Trick jogging up The Dungeon’s main corridor. He was pushing his way through a sea of Wild Ones heading for the stairs and escape.
“Friend or foe?”
Stug said the words automatically. Some part of his brain knew Trick was probably here on orders from Neville to arrest two deserters, but he was still processing the sight of his maimed QB.
“Friend, you big lummox!” chided Trick as he reached the doorway and clasped Stug’s hand in a loose greeting. “What’s all the—”
Trick followed Stug’s gaze. “Captain …” was all that came out.
There wasn’t time for more. Hatch was moving around to the head of the cot. “Stug, get in here and help me secure her. Get your belt off, you too Trick, and we can tie her down for evac.”
Trick moved in to follow orders. Stug put Anne down and followed him in.
“Sean, you’re not listening to me,” said Mary.
“You’re damned right I’m not.”
“Stop!”
The old QB’s voice of command. The Queen Bitch tone that had earned her that nickname from Neville.
“Sean … the move will kill me. My legs … my legs … they’ve treated them just enough to keep me from dying. They even drop in some morphine now and then. But it’s not enough. You can see the gangrene starting. I won’t survive if you pull me out of here like this.”
“You don’t know that,” Stug said. His voice was quiet.
Mary blinked. “The pain when I move, Sean. It’s horrible.” She sounded embarrassed to admit it. To ask her subordinates, even those she considered her friends, for an ounce of consideration.
“Please,” said Hatch, kneeling beside her again. “Let me try. All of Columbia is about to die, Mary. Please … at least let me try to save you.”
“Let him try,” said Anne. “You always have to try.”
Mary sought the girl’s eyes, so like her own, then dropped her head to the cot, moaning. “At least give me my blanket. Please. At least give me that.”
Stug picked it up off the floor and draped it lightly over her shattered legs. As Hatch used his belt to secure Mary on the cot, the sergeant turned to Trick and asked, “Sitrep topside?”
“There’s a shit-ton of porters in the common room. Pusher and Bracer are evacuating as many salvagers as possible. But we’re gonna have to fight our way up.”
Stug glanced down at Mary, then shared a knowing look with Trick. There was little chance they’d get out carrying her on a litter. Everyone in the room knew it but Hatch. Maybe he knew it too and simply refused to accept it. The odds were just too great.
Transport would kill them all.
Anne will die, Stug realized. It was like a physical blow to his heart to admit it.
“Sean,” he said, not knowing how to speak the truth out loud. Hatch glanced at him, tying the buckle securely around Mary’s chest. “Sean—”
“You gonna help me here or we just gonna wait for them to come to us?” Hatch was grinning like his old warrior self, his hope renewed by the insane idea that they could get Mary out and somehow all survive.
Stug felt a hand in his. A small hand.
“You always have to try,” said Anne, looking up at him.
Aw, crap. Stug squeezed her hand and let it go, then started to remove his belt.
“Trick—Captain, sir—you’re in charge of Anne here,” said Stug. “If she dies, I’ll kill you myself.”
Trick reached down and took Anne’s hand, pulling her deeper into the cell, away from the doorway. Establishing an overwatch position, he saw the last of the Wild Ones heading up and out of The Dungeon.
“Sergeant, if Anne dies, I’ll already be dead.”
Nodding, Stug began securing Mary’s lower body with his belt. It was all he could do to stay on task and ignore her screams.
“That airbus!” said Pusher. The Wild One standing next to her seemed dazed, in shock. So she grabbed the woman and pointed at the nearest ship. “That one. Get over to it and huddle beneath the fuselage as best you can. Keep your people hunkered down, okay?”
She and Bracer, who held the landing one flight below, were acting as traffic cops. The limping, shambling band of salvagers filed up the stairs and onto the roof. Pusher motioned for Hawkeye to leave his position near the airbus and rejoin her at the access door.
“How do you expect to get that airbus off the ground?” shouted Bracer from below. “Only Transport personnel can open ’em up.”
“Yeah, but once they’re open, anyone can fly ’em.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” said Bracer, his arm pinwheeling Wild Ones toward the roof.
“I’ve got a plan,” she answered, almost to herself. As Hawkeye joined her, she assessed the small, confined accessway, her training noting it as a defensible chokepoint. If they could hold Transport here, the airbus might actually be able to get away. Until Transport dropships and attack craft showed up. Then they were screwed.
“I want you to go below and help the others get here,” she said to Hawkeye. Twirling her index finger at the doorway around them, she said, “This is the hardpoint. We’ll hold it as long as we can. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Agony.
Every jolt, every bump, every step toward freedom.
Not freedom, Mary reminded herself. Not that kind, anyway.
Even if she got out of here, she knew they were merely taking her to another place to die. She wanted to tell Hatch, “I’m going to die anyway. Let me die, Sean. Let me at least make the pain less.”
But leaving her here like this to merely waste away would kill him, too. Maybe not today; maybe not tomorrow. But he would always blame himself for leaving her here to die a meaningless death. This she knew.
And Anne wouldn’t understand it. The girl was a fighter, like she was herself. And so Mary endured—for the sake of a man she’d once loved; maybe still loved. For the sake of the little girl she once was. And for the legacy she could leave Anne—an indomitable resolve to never surrender, however unavoidable the future seemed.
The crushing pain in her legs unexpectedly subsided, if only for a moment. She looked around, brought back to herself and the sterile hallway of The Dungeon. Stug was reconnoitering the stairs heading up.
Mary caught Hatch’s eyes as they awaited Stug’s signal. She’d moved beyond her embarrassment at crying out. It had become too common to worry about any longer. Command be damned. Some things surpassed the need to maintain protocol.
“I’m sorry,” said Hatch from the head of the litter. He stared down, upside down, into her eyes.
“A … little … late to admit … you’re wrong,” she said. She was making a snarky attempt at their old banter. Mary’s words were playful, but her tone betrayed the excruciating pain barely contained. Held in check by willpower alone.
Hatch was about to reply when Stug called, “Clear!” The sergeant was already on the move to the common-room level.
Trick mounted the stairs, and the QB’s litter tilted. Hatch hadn’t been ready to move; he was pulled off balance and stumbled. Mary grabbed the sides of the litter with both hands, knuckles white.
“Stop!” cried Hatch, adjusting his grip. “Okay, now, go.”
Mary began to weep.
“So, what’s your brilliant plan?” asked Bracer, staring at the Wild One huddled beneath the airbus. “Only a Transport pilot can open one of those tin cans without a blowtorch. And then only with their BICE.”
Bracer was right. That didn’t bother Pusher. It
was true that after TRACE had made off with tons of okcillium by hijacking the airbus at Gettysburg, the Authority had re-keyed its aircraft to the biometric signatures of Transport personnel. No one could get into a Transport craft without the BICE code of one of the flight crew.
“Why do you think I left the flight crew alive?” asked Pusher.
A light dawned in Bracer’s eyes. “That must be why you get sergeant’s pay.”
Pusher smirked. “Get those gags off them.” She nodded at the two pilots they’d knocked out when they first arrived. Both were awake now and, by the look in their eyes, frightened. Pusher was glad of that. Because if this went where it might have to, being scared would be the least of their worries. She was prepared to do what needed doing.
“Two choices,” said Pusher. “I throw you off the roof or you open up that airbus.” She moved to the edge of the roof and, for effect, craned her neck to the dark pavement below. The silhouettes of the Lady Justice twins, one high one low, pointed toward one another across the open square.
Bracer hauled both pilots over. He held the woman up next to Pusher so the pilot could get a good look down.
“Even though it’s dark, you know what’s down there,” said Pusher. “A sudden stop to a short drop.”
The female pilot was trembling. She just kept turning her head back and forth, as if by refusing to believe her present reality, she could make it be only a dream.
“Key the sequence to open the doors to the bus,” ordered Pusher. “Last chance.”
“I … I can’t,” said the woman. “I’m sorry. I swore an oath to protect the Authority and all its citizens. I swore—”
“Throw her over,” said Pusher, her tone already writing the woman off. She turned her attention to the male pilot. He was shaking too.
Bracer hesitated.
The woman looked from one to the other. “Please! I have a son!”
“Then for his sake, open the bloody bus!” insisted Pusher.
“I can’t! For his sake! The Authority would—”
“Bracer …”
“Sergeant, I—”
“Corporal, I’m giving you an order! Do it or I’ll do it myself!”
Bracer moved the woman closer to the edge. She struggled against him. She began to scream, but the wind carried it away. Bracer lifted her over the concrete barrier, and the woman caught it with her foot, pushing frantically against him.
“I’ll do it!” yelled the second pilot. “I’ll open it!”
Turning to Pusher, Bracer’s eyes showed his relief. Killing soldiers in a fair fight was one thing, but this… His sergeant nodded to him, and he pulled the woman away from the edge of the roof.
“I don’t have any family,” said the second pilot, exhaling his relief. “It’s just me. I’ll do it. Please don’t kill her.”
“Hold her right there,” said Pusher. Bracer stopped backing away from the edge. His stomach began to twist.
“But you said—”
“As soon as you open it, I’ll honor my word.”
The second pilot stared in disbelief. “You people—it’s just like the Authority says. You people are monsters.”
Pusher leveled her laser pistol at the head of the woman in Bracer’s grasp, who was mouthing silently. Maybe praying, thought Pusher. “We’re made in the image of our creator,” she said. “Now open the damned bus.”
There was no obvious signal, of course. But from the corner of her eye, Pusher could see the bus’s doors part and the ramp begin to descend. She walked up to the man and clocked him across the jaw with the butt of her pistol. He faded once again into unconsciousness. She nodded at Bracer, who applied a quick sleeper hold to the female pilot. She, too, collapsed to the roof.
“Get those people on board,” said Pusher. “And be quick about it.”
“It’s going to be mighty packed in one transport. A hundred Wild Ones? And us? Can we even lift off?”
“We’ve only got one certified pilot. Me. One ship’ll have to do the job.” She glanced back at the stairs leading into the Detention Center. “Hurry, Bracer. Our friends are down there.”
Hawkeye was alone.
He stepped quickly down the stairs, pausing at each landing. He was one flight from the ground floor when he heard a noise below.
Hawkeye froze and aimed his pistol at the ground floor door.
The door cracked open. A barrel inched its way through the hole. Someone else was being cautious too.
The door opened wider. A young Transport soldier edged out—first his laser rifle, then his head. His entire attention was focused on the stairs leading down.
Hawkeye tightened his grip on the pistol with both hands and sighted down the barrel. He held his breath and homed in on the details—like the old-world binocular symbol overlaying the Transport emblem on the soldier’s right front pocket. His enemy was a scout too.
You should always remember one thing, son, Hawkeye thought as he waited patiently. The scout pushed through the door and held it open behind him. Hawkeye watched him stand quietly, assessing the stairs below him. Maybe the man was reporting back about his recon mission via BICE.
Then Hawkeye heard heavy, dragging boots on the stairs, like someone was climbing with a bum leg. And someone else was moaning. A woman, sounded like.
The porter moved into position to aim his rifle down.
Hawkeye squeezed off a single shot, taking the enemy scout in the head. The man collapsed to the floor, wedging open the door.
“As a spotter, you should always assess the high ground first,” Hawkeye whispered, finishing his thought. But he held his position, keeping his laser pistol aimed at the half-opened door.
The dragging sounds stopped. Hawkeye slid on one knee a half foot to the left and twisted thirty degrees right, increasing his field of fire to cover the approach below. Now he could hit anything coming up the stairs or through the door before either threat would see him.
The heavy tread resumed, albeit slower now. Cautious. When Stug’s bald head appeared, Hawkeye let himself breathe again.
“Watch the door, Sarge,” Hawkeye said.
Stug rounded instantly and brought his pistol to bear on the landing above. “I nearly fried you, boy.”
“The door,” said Hawkeye, lowering his own weapon. “Might be more up the hall. Not sure—”
Three laser blasts streaked past Stug. He dropped back and down, using the half-open door as cover. Hawkeye descended the stairs quickly and took up position on the near side of the doorway.
“Well, I’m sure,” grumbled Stug. He reached forward without rising and grabbed the dead scout by the shirt collar. Hawkeye wrapped his pistol around the doorjamb and fired four random shots down the corridor to cover Stug as he pulled the corpse into the stairwell. Before the door closed, Hawkeye chanced a glance after his salvo.
“I saw two.”
“There’ll be more,” said Stug as he rifled through the corpse’s clothes. He found three frag grenades and an extra okcillium battery for the dead scout’s laser rifle. Grabbing up the rifle, he added, “Pusher sealed the door below.”
“So a good news, bad news thing then.”
“Stug, sound off!”
Hatch’s voice from below.
Laser fire pop-pop-popped the other side of the door.
“Hurry up! We might still thread this needle!”
Stug regretted the words as soon as he said them. Their need to move carefully because of the QB’s condition was not playing well with their need to move fast. He watched Hatch maneuver around the stairwell below. The QB was motionless. Passed out from the pain, Stug guessed.
Then he heard something metal hit the other side of the door, plink to the ground, and roll to a stop.
“Grenade!” shouted Stug, seizing the corpse as he fell backward and pulling it over him like a heavy blanket.
Hawkeye leapt up the stairs, ducked and covered. Hatch and Trick jostled Mary to the ground, and Hatch threw himself over her. Trick t
urned quickly, gathered Anne against his chest, and pressed them both against the wall.
The door blasted off its hinges, striking the wall of the stairwell and clattering to the concrete. It came to rest hard atop the corpse Stug was using for shelter. As the concrete from the walls and dust rained down around him, Stug raised himself—door, body, and all—and found Transport soldiers already moving in force up the corridor toward their position. He saw four pairs of partners jog-running in flanking formation along the corridor, plainly confident that the grenade had done their work for them.
But they pulled up short when they saw what looked like one of their own, with his back turned to them, coming through the hole where the door had been. He looked odd and his head drooped, and the two-man team in front dropped to one knee, quickly followed by the others taking up cover positions. The whole thing looked eerie in the hanging, gray haze following the blast.
“Soldier, identify your—”
A big hand tossed a frag grenade around the body like a bowling ball. It rattled metallically down the hallway, coming to rest in the middle of their squad. One of the porters shouted a warning, but too late. A second explosion rocked the narrow corridor, fragments of shrapnel erupting in all directions.
Stug felt pieces of metal thump into the body he held up in front of him. He was starting to like this tactic of recycling dead porters for body shields. With his ears clouding up from the two massive concussions, he could barely hear the muffled cries of the now-prostrate squad over the last of the blast—but the cries were there. That meant soldiers who could still fight, and maybe more coming in behind them.
The sergeant thumbed the trigger of a second grenade and overhanded it as far down the hallway as he could throw. He backed quickly into the stairwell and hunkered down behind his shield again. The second frag grenade went off, caving in the ceiling where the blast had been heaviest.
Columbia Page 8
