The Magellan Apocalypse: Map Runners

by Arthur Byrne

  There turned out to be only one other door into the production room, and it was directly across from the one he came through. This was the spot to set up camp.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Nash found Calvin sipping coffee and doing his bookwork. “You got any of that mud left?”

  “It’s a new pot. Help yourself.”

  Nash poured himself a cup and sat down across from his friend. “How’s business?”

  “It’s the same...always the same. It’s not like we get any tourists around here.”

  “Frank’s recruiting a couple dozen new mappers.”

  Calvin nodded.

  “It seems like strange timing.”

  “You think he’s up to something?”

  “Maybe,” Nash allowed.

  “Could it be you’re paranoid? It seems to me we’ve spent a fair number of mornings right here with me counting my shekels and you bitching about how Frank keeps you understaffed.”

  “True, but why now?”

  Calvin set his tablet down and took a sip of his coffee. “Maybe he’s heard the rumblings.”

  “What rumbling?”

  “Folks getting restless. They think we should’ve found more living space by now.”

  “They don’t know how bad it is out there,” Nash muttered.

  “I think they know, but there comes a point where reason gets shoved aside by all them other emotions.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ten years in this cargo bay is a long time, and most of us have never set foot through the gate.”

  “You don’t want to.”

  “It’s about perspective, my friend. The walls start to close in on a person if they can’t see outside. You may not like what you find out there, but you’re still looking.”

  “I can see your point. Every time I head into a new space, there’s always that hope I’ll find a bit of the ship that’s got it better than we do... So you think Frank’s worried about a revolt?”

  “I don’t know the man. He ain’t never had me pour one for him,” Calvin said, “and the only time I seen his face is when he’s giving one of his speeches. Heck, I ain’t been to one of those in five years.”

  “Why haven’t I heard any of these rumblings?”

  “Because you don’t like people, and frankly you scare most of them away. When was the last time you talked with anyone other than me, PJ, or Tempest?”

  “You forgot Holly.”

  “No I didn’t. She could recite the rebel’s manifesto to you and you wouldn’t hear a word. Frankly, I think you’re too hard on that girl.”

  “They have a manifesto?” Nash asked.

  “You want to find out what’s going on in the bay? Maybe you start acting like you’re one of us, because, buddy, you may not like it, but you are.”

  “You know the only reason I let you talk to me like that?”

  “Is it because I could squash you like a bug?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  They both laughed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Nash headed over to the Worm Hole, the seediest of the three bars. It was run by a man named Stepan Razin, who had been visiting the cargo bay when the attack happened. He had three of his “associates” with him, and it remains unclear what business he had had in 37.

  When the city started to grow up out of the chaos, he was the first person to start a “business.” It was little more than a stand that sold vodka he made from the potatoes he managed to acquire from the agricultural crew.

  Nash hadn’t been to the Worm Hole for a while. Stepan sat at the bar eating a sandwich. He looked up and said, “Fristion, my friend, how have you been? You don’t come visit old Stepan much anymore.”

  “I don’t get out much.”

  “You get out more than anyone I know. I’m just glad you get back in. Find anything out in the wilderness I might be interested in?”

  “No, but I’m mostly too busy trying to keep alive to spend much time treasure hunting.”

  “Sit down. Have a drink on the house.”

  Nash did, and before long they were well on their way to an early afternoon drunk. By the time the second shift welders and builders had started to wander in, Nash had learned only that Stepan was keen on finding a way back to his home in Jade City. He was willing to pay dearly for Nash’s help.

  Nash decided he wasn’t going to learn anything more and just let the vodka do its job.

  ***

  PJ was tired when he returned from his third trip back up the duck hole to recharge his air. His tanks were full and he had found two other empty tanks to use as extras.

  Outside of the office, he used boxes of heavy spare parts to build a four-foot-high bunker along the raised walkway. It was high enough that the wall would protect him from a rush of scavengers, but low enough that he could safely return fire and defend his camp.

  He didn’t expect any wandering packs of trouble, but the fortifications meant he would be able to get some rest. He also set a couple of motion sensors near the doors. The high-pitched one he set by the door to the right that he had not been through yet; the one that sounded like a foghorn was to the left, where he had come in.

  PJ could sleep for five hours before he would need to get up and recharge his tanks. He set his alarm and sent off a detailed data stream to his tracker.

  Sleep came, and then there was the wake-up alarm. It was the first time he’d got real sleep in the field, but it was also the first time he’d built such a secure camp.

  He had an hour left on his tanks. He could swap out the backup tanks, which would give him three hours, but he didn’t want to risk it. He could eat when he got back. A quick listen and everything was as expected. He climbed over the bunker wall and made his way to the exit, disabling the motion based sensor using his HUD.

  This was the best run he had made. The cache of weapons was no small find, and he knew Frank would be pleased. He thought about reporting them, but Nash had said to wait, so he did.

  Before he turned into the room with the duck hole, he paused and looked down at the pile of debris. That would be the first thing to explore after he got himself some breakfast.

  In the duck hole room, it took a moment for his brain to register what he was looking at, or more precisely what he didn’t see. The ascension gear was gone. He looked around for a moment as if it might have fallen down, but that wasn’t possible.

  Then the truth hit him across his still sleepy brain: someone had removed the gear. PJ froze and listened. Everything was quiet, so he turned and bolted for the door. Maybe there really was a door behind that pile of rubble. Perhaps they were planning on checking out his door today and had found his stuff first.

  The tanks had fifty minutes left in them. He had more gear and could go get it and try to make his way back up through the hole, but it was equally possible that whoever it was would be waiting.

  The protocol was clear, get safe and then call it in to his tracker. They would put together a team and come after him.

  He hustled back to his bunker and turned the motion detector back on. “PJ to base, come in base.” He said it again. “PJ to base, come in base. I have an issue.”

  He hadn’t tried to call in after entering the production facility. He should have done that first thing. It was a mistake, and now it looked costly.

  He moved all of the weapons into the bunker and lined them up. If he came under attack he would have plenty of firepower.

  His heart rate was up, and he was burning through his air. The fifteen-minute warning light came on. He swapped tanks and tried to calm his breathing. He had three hours, plus a little bit in the tank he’d just removed.

  The first priority was to get a call in to base. The sooner the better, because his time was limited. The second would be venturing into the unknown areas, looking for another charging station or a section with life support.

  He had to choose: go through the door on the other end of the production facility into uncharted area and
away from the duck hole, or go back and start exploring the hall outside the duck hole, which was much more likely to lead to a firefight.

  It was a close call, but if he got back to the room with the duck hole, he could at least get a call in to base.

  He slung a rifle over his shoulder and grabbed two demi-pistols. When he got to the room, he put in the call. “Base, this is PJ, come back.”

  “This is base.”

  “I’ve got trouble. Someone has removed my ascension gear.”

  “Are you secure?”

  “No hostiles engaged or spotted.”

  “I can’t see your vitals. We’re getting some interference. How’s your air?”

  “Two hours and fifty-one minutes.”

  “I’ll put an extraction team together, but you’re a ways out. It’ll be close.”

  “I’m going to look for another charger.”

  “Which way are you headed?”

  “From the duck hole room, into the hall, and right.”

  “Try to be back at the hole in two hours. Good luck.”

  “Over and out.”

  PJ made an effort again to slow his breathing, turned around, and then headed into the hall and went right. He turned on his lights because speed was more important than stealth. If there were scavengers out there, or worse, Navereen, he didn’t have time for tactics.

  He walked at the briskest pace he could manage without going into a jog. The pile of rubbish was just that. Behind it, there was a door, but behind the door was only a closet.

  The hall continued on and curved to the left. He slowed at the corner and peered around; it looked clear. Up ahead was an intersection.

  At the intersection it was quiet, so he pulled a piece of chalk from his suit and marked the wall with an arrow pointing back to where he had come from. Getting lost wasn’t an option.

  He turned to the right at the intersection and passed doors that looked locked down and probably hadn’t been opened since the attack. He had gone about two hundred meters when he heard running behind him.

  The first blast hit at his feet.

  PJ spun around and opened up with both pistols down the hall. The running stopped, and he was pretty sure he had hit two of them. It was the Navereen.

  He fired off another blast and then ran. The hall started to curve left, which gave him some protection, but he had a problem now: there were alien special forces between him and the duck hole.

  He could hear their heavy footfalls behind him, and it seemed like they were making up ground. He came to a four-way intersection and dropped a motion detector in the center as he ran straight through. He used his HUD to set it to emit a piercing shrill blast when triggered. It should slow them up, and he would be able to tell how far back they were.

  He made it about fifty meters when the sensor went off. It meant they were within three meters of the intersection. He hoped it would confuse them enough to give him a chance to get to the next turn.

  A blast over his shoulder told him they hadn’t been slowed.

  At the next turn, left again, he found himself running down a long hallway. They would definitely have a clear shot when they reached the corner.

  He ran for what he estimated was the gap between them, turned, got down on his belly and waited. When the first Navereen reached the corner, he let him come a few steps. The moment the next two rounded the corner, PJ opened fire.

  The plasma pistols tore through the first one and dropped him. The second two stopped and dove back into the other hall.

  PJ got up and ran.

  A moment later, shots were zipping past him. They were staying covered in the hall and firing around the corner. PJ sent shots back. He wasn’t even close, but it was enough to keep his pursuers from chasing.

  The hall curved left again, and he saw a door at the end and what looked like another turn to the left. He prayed it wasn’t locked down.

  He hit the pad, and the door slid to the side. The moment he stepped through a high-pitched squeal almost caused him to lose his balance.

  It was his sensor on the other door of the production facility. The halls had wrapped around, and he was back at his camp.

  He turned off the sensor and sprinted for his bunker. The moment he was over the barricade, he turned the sensor back on.

  Then he waited.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Nash had drunk a good deal the night before, but not so much that he was unable to sweet talk his way back into Tempest’s bed.

  The pounding at the front door shook him out of his sleep. Tempest hit a button by the bed, and the door unlocked.

  A moment later, Holly was at the foot of the bed. “Nash, it’s PJ. He’s in trouble.”

  Tempest rolled over and went back to sleep.

  Nash almost jumped out of bed. His pants were on the floor near the bathroom door. “Do you mind?”

  “Oh, sorry,” Holly said and went back to stand in the hall.

  Nash threw his clothes on and was standing beside her less than a minute later. “Let’s go.”

  As they ran, Holly explained. “He’s down the duck hole, and someone took his gear during the night.”

  That was all she needed to say. Nash knew what it meant and was working out the scenarios in his head as they ran through the maze of walkways that made up the city.

  The master-at-arms was a wiry graduate of the Space Naval Academy named Seaghán Tong. His first name, the Gaelic spelling of Sean, was after Irish grandfather on his mother’s side. His last name was from his Chinese father. Tong had half a dozen men geared up and waiting.

  Nash said, “Give me five minutes to gear up.”

  “I’ve been briefed on his location. I can get us there, but it’s quite a ways.”

  “Seaghán, I discovered the duck hole. I know exactly where we’re going.”

  “Good.”

  Holly followed Nash as he went to his locker. He suited up and said, “Get me an N-135 from the armory and six extra clips. Do you know what...”

  “Yes, I’ll be right back.”

  Nash tested his tanks, ran through a diagnostic on his HUD, and was ready just as she got back. “That was quick. Good job.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Okay, you wanted to be a tracker, stay with me. If things go south, you’ll probably be the only record of what happened.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Go log on and make sure you’re next to PJ’s tracker. I want all updates the second they come in.”

  “Roger.”

  Nash ran down to the courtyard. There were now eight men, including the master-at-arms.

  Tong said, “Nash is taking point. Stay on his six.”

  The guards were not runners. It was their job to protect the city; the only time they went out into the wild was on rescue missions, which were rare because most of the times a runner got in a tough spot, it was over before they could call it in.

  Nash said, “It’s a straight shot for the most part, but it’s a long way.”

  Holly’s voice came on in his helmet. “We estimate that PJ has no more than two hours and thirty minutes of air.”

  Nash said, “I’ve just been told the clock is running on his air, and we need to hustle. But we have to watch our step; it’s pretty torn up between us and the duck hole. That means single file and keep your eyes on me. I’ll signal all the holes as we go.”

  The door operator had already shut down the hall from the courtyard and awaited the command for him to let them out the gate.

  Nash gave a nod to Tong, who signaled to his man. The door opened, and Nash went through. He ran for the first quarter mile, but then had to slow. It wasn’t just the torn up bits of the hall that slowed him, but also the dozens of places where they could walk into an ambush.

  Nash and the team cleared each one and moved on slowly, making their way to where they hoped PJ was waiting.

  ***

  He’d gotten the first two Navereen that came through the door without much trouble.
That meant he’d killed five. He’d never run across a squad before, but PJ knew they typically ran in groups of twelve to fifteen.

  For twenty minutes, he waited for the next attack. PJ could hear them outside the door.

  He had burned through his air and had only one hour and forty minutes left, even though it had only been thirty minutes since he’d called in to base. He did the math and realized he was now fifty minutes below what his tracker thought he had.

  Since his voice comm wasn’t getting through, it was unlikely any of his vital data were either. He hoped they didn’t screw around too much in getting to the duck hole.

  He tried to remember how long it had taken him, but then the next Navereen soldier came through. He fired his plasma pistols, and the blasts dissipated against some sort of shield.

  A blast of fire came from the center of the shield. It missed, and PJ sent a volley into the ceiling in front of the advancing Navereen. A piece of industrial machinery broke loose and crashed to the floor, nearly hitting the soldier. The energy shield went down.

  PJ dropped him with the next shot. Another soldier came through the door, and then two more. The first headed over to check on the one with the shield, who didn’t appear to be mortally wounded.

  The other two went down the stairs and headed for the other side of the room.

  There were too many machines on the shop floor they could use for cover, and PJ couldn’t land any shots. He did the only thing that made sense. He grabbed two new demi-pistols and cranked them up to full. The first blast, at the base of the walkway where the injured alien lay, caused it to collapse.

  The next blast took out the stairs on the far side, just as the two soldiers were arriving there. It was a good plan, except PJ didn’t realize how nimble these beasts were. It barely slowed them down.

  The one in front was advancing and firing at a rapid pace. PJ grabbed one of the P-514s and fired. The shields were designed to handle plasma blasters but not high-speed armor-piercing rounds. The first shot went through the shield, the alien, and through his comrade’s shield and chest, too.