by Amie Kaufman
>> ALL MAGELLAN SECURITY PERSONNEL, PROCEED TO SHUTTLE BAY IMMEDIATELY.
>> REPEAT, SECTEAM TO SHUTTLE BAY IMMEDIATELY.
The breaching pod must have cost the late Travis J. Falk a small fortune.
The man clearly wanted to be prepared to enter a ship or station that wasn’t inclined to open the door when he knocked, and boy, does this thing get the job done.
The pod crashes through the Magellan’s outer skin, the nose cone blasting off, the restraints that hold the troops in place automatically releasing with a quick hiss.
Most of the occupants are still cursing as they scramble out into the shuttle bay, weapons up, fanning out in anticipation of resistance. But the inner bay doors have automatically sealed as the atmosphere vented into space, and the teams from the Mao are alone.
For now.
Hanna Donnelly keeps in step with Winifred McCall, and Ben Garver turns to help neurogramming student Michelle Dennis jump down from the pod, steadying her as she lands, knees bent like they told her.
They almost look like a fighting force, clad in the black envirosuits of the Mao and the white ones of the Hypatia, their ragtag volunteer army made a little sleeker, a little more uniform. Footage for this report is taken mostly from cams affixed to their suits, transmitted back to the Mao, in some cases even after the wearer was dead.
Kim Rivera, who once ran the dojo on Heimdall and taught Hanna Donnelly some of her fancier tricks, runs forward to take a place by her protégé. Garver has Dennis by the shoulders, hurrying her through the crowd toward Hanna and Kim.
Donnelly meets his gaze as he fetches up beside her, studying him through the IR lenses of her tactical armor. He stares straight back.
Her eyes are narrowed.
Then she blinks and snaps out of it. “See you on the other side, Fred,” she says to her captain.
“Good hunting,” McCall replies.
Donnelly, Rivera and Dennis turn away, and a few moments later they’re ripping the cover off the nearest vent. Kim and Hanna weave their hands together, and Michelle steps up, just like they practiced back on the Mao. They heave her up so she can grab the edge, and with a kick, she disappears into the ventilation system.
Donnelly jumps up and grabs at it with her fingertips, grunting as she pulls herself higher. Rivera follows, kicking the vent cover back into place. And then they’re gone.
Meanwhile, the Mao crew has managed to override the shuttle bay doors. They pour out into the corridors of the Magellan, the doors grinding shut behind them once more, and the hissing wreckage of the breaching pod is left all alone.
There’s no way back now.
No way out but victory.
RADIO TRANSMISSION: Transport—Channel 001
PARTICIPANTS:
Kady Grant, Systems Chief
Ezra Mason, Air Wing Leader
Niklas Malikov, Gunner
Artificial Intelligence Defense Analytics Network
Ella Malikova, Ayatollah of Rockandrolla
DATE: 09/05/75
TIMESTAMP: 09:28
MASON, E: Bridge, this is Mason, over.
GRANT, K: I hear you, Ezra, go ahead.
MASON, E: Breaching pod is away. Repeat, breaching pod is away.
GRANT, K: Okay, Ella and AIDAN have the Churchill’s rail guns under control.
MALIKOV, N: Madonna, it’s like a ****ing shooting gallery out here…
MALIKOVA, E: You can thank me later, cuz.
MALIKOV, N: ****, remind me never to get on your bad side, Little Spider.
AIDAN: DO YOU HONESTLY REQUIRE A REMINDER OF THAT, NIKLAS?
MALIKOV, N: Blow me, AIDAN.
AIDAN: I DO NOT RESPIRE, HOW CAN I BLO—
GRANT, K: AIDAN, shouldn’t you be working? And Nik, shouldn’t you be shooting?
MALIKOV, N: Way ahead of you. Let’s go see this high school of yours, Babyface.
MASON, E: Ella, how long can you maintain control of their batteries?
MALIKOVA, E: Their deckers haven’t zeroed us yet. So, a while.
MASON, E: Roger. Bridge, our Cyclones have things under control up here. Chimera group is heading planetside to provide air support for colony ground troops, over.
GRANT, K: Okay. Please fly safe, Ez.
MASON, E: Always do. Mason out.
Down on the surface of Kerenza IV, things are even more chaotic.
Reports are flooding in about an enemy ship in orbit, an attack on the Churchill. There are only a couple of possibilities as to who owns that enemy ship: UTA or WUC. Doesn’t really matter—either way, it’s bad news for a BeiTech occupation force that’s been engaged in acts of genocidal brutality for the past seven months.
But human rights abuses aside, the BT officers on the ground are still damn good at their jobs. Lieutenant Christie is like some old general from a history VR. Striding among his troops, bellowing orders, setting up a counterstrike against the rebelling miners. Bruno Way’s act of self-destruction has done its job—vital supplies are missing, and what’s left is stretched far too thin. But Christie doesn’t flinch from the task at hand. The snow is falling heavy, the frost spilling from his lips as he roars.
“Get those auto-guns set up! Carter, get your squad up on those rooftops! Move those emplacements forward, goddammit, I said two hundred meters!”
Lindstrom sits with Oshiro, Karpadia, Markham and a dozen other pounders in the back of an APC. They’re near the makeshift bridge over the ice chasm on the edge of town. The whole crew is waiting for orders—attack the mine, or set up a defensive perimeter in the colony itself. Christie is seeking the same confirmation. He’s standing by the APC, hand cupping his ear as he shouts over the howling wind.
“Churchill, this is Christie! We’re going to need some birds down here, storm front means our sat-vis is for ****, and we need to know where these rebs are moving.”
And that’s about when AIDAN cuts communications to the ground.
There’s nothing dramatic about it. Just silence. Christie repeats his question, asks a fellow officer to confirm his suspicions, then spits into the snow.
“God-****ing-dammit.”
The lieutenant peers into the back of the APC, spots Lindstrom.
“Hustler, there’s something wrong with comms. Haul *** back to the primary array and see if it’s an issue on our end. We can’t be deaf down here. Move!”
Oshiro climbs to her feet. “I should go with hi—”
“No, I need you here, Sergeant. Take Gallanosa and Lu’s squad one block north of the LZ; I want you setting up perimeter there. If these rebs are looking to get off-planet, the only way out is up.” Christie glances at Lindstrom, tattoo twisting as he snarls. “Are you waiting for a gold-plated invitation, rookie? Move your ***!”
“Sir, yessir.”
“I want you back with the squad as soon as you’re done, Cherry,” Oshiro warns.
Lindstrom turns to look at his sergeant, expression hidden behind his helmet.
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Then he’s off, pounding across the road and back toward the colony complex. The storm is coming down hard, visibility is low, but a supersonic crack overhead signals the arrival of fighters in the gray skies above. Lindstrom looks up and sees Ezra Mason and his Chimera wing break through the clouds, begin a swift reconnoiter of the ground. There are only three ships, but with a dreadnought in orbit around the planet, BeiTech never invested a lot of time in building anti-fighter batteries on the ground. Against armor and infantry, even three fighters are going to cause no end of hell.
Lindstrom curses, runs harder. A quick glance through his ATLAS cam shows he’s not heading to the primary comms array as ordered. Instead, he’s charging back to the Landing Zone. He’s passing APCs loaded with troops when the
few anti-fighter turrets BeiTech did set up start to crackcrackcrack over the rumble of the storm. The LZ is chaos, soldiers running to and fro, people bellowing orders, ground crews dragging camo tarps over their shuttles in the hopes those fighters might miss them.
Crackcrackcrack.
A Chimera screams overhead, making a low pass over the complex. The vessel is sleek, four wings arranged almost like a butterfly’s. Beautiful ships, chum. The laden missile pods beneath are nothing close to pretty, but Mason and his crew know the ground is full of civilians—they can’t just start bombing indiscriminately. Still, you get the feeling that carnage isn’t too far over the horizon.
The LZ guns open up, tracer rounds lighting the skies. The colony geeball field wasn’t some fancy stadium—just a walled-off playing field with concrete bleachers, a couple of two-story buildings and a big shed for the gear. BeiTech has added their own temporary hangars and hastily constructed warehouses.
Lindstrom gives a hurried salute to the guards on station outside the main building, and he’s inside. I’ll say one thing for the chaos of war—not many people take the time to ask if you’re where you’re supposed to be when the guns start firing.
Inside it’s just as chaotic, ground staff shouting to each other about those fighters, the loss of orbital comms, the general “oh ****–edness” of the situation. Weapons are being handed out, tac armor donned. Lindstrom barrels downstairs to the basement storage rooms, which also serve as the holding cells for priority prisoners. There’s a single guard on duty—a rookie, only about as old as Lindstrom. Farmboy looks. Blond hair under his Churchill BT013-TN regulation cap. Square jaw.
“Specialist?” the rook asks. “What’s happening u—”
That square jaw audibly cracks as Lindstrom puts his fist into it. The kid’s cap flies right off his head and Lindstrom snatches it out of the air. He takes hold of the door handle and twists with his ATLAS until the lock pops clear from its housing.
Inside the room, Asha Grant is cuffed and slumped at a table. She lifts herself up slowly, swollen eyes on the door. Lindstrom’s breath catches at the sight of her—it’s obvious her captors haven’t been gentle in their interrogations.
One eye is blackened, her bottom lip is split, jaw bruised. But there’s still defiance in her stare as she sees the BeiTech trooper walking through the doorway. Until she reads his nameplate.
“Rhys…,” she breathes.
Lindstrom tears his helmet off, kneels beside her and carefully cracks the bolts on her cuffs. Tears well in her lashes and she throws her arms around his neck, hair tumbling over her eyes as she presses her forehead to his.
“God, they hurt you,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry, Ash…”
He presses his lips to her swollen cheek, gentle as falling snow. He kisses her tears away, arms wrapped around her as if to shield her from all the hurt. He’s so big in the ATLAS that she’s half-hidden inside the circle of his arms. But she lifts her hands to find the skin she can, to frame his face with her palms. Half sobbing, she then pushes up to kiss him desperately. She’s trembling, her blood on his lips when they part. They come back together again for one more quick kiss, this one harder, fiercer.
“Did it work?” she whispers.
He gives her a small, crooked smile. “Listen.”
Distant alarms. Wailing klaxons. Crackcrackcrack.
“We’ve gotta get out of here,” he says. “Put this on.” He slips the Churchill cap over her head, points to the unconscious trooper in the hallway. “Get his uniform on—we’ll find a place to lie low, let your cousin and her friends do their thing.”
Grant rises to her feet, draws a shaky breath. “No.”
Lindstrom frowns. “Ash, we’ve got to—”
“No,” she says again, firmer this time. “We’ve got to go find Katya.”
RADIO TRANSMISSION: DREADNOUGHT CHURCHILL—COMMAND CHANNEL 001
PARTICIPANTS:
Sūn Huojin, Admiral
Chris Howard, Ship Captain
DATE: 09/05/75
TIMESTAMP: 09:45
SŪN, H: Captain Howard, report status.
HOWARD, C: A breaching pod has collided with Magellan, sir. Hostiles aboard. Rail guns still aren’t responding to our commands. Attempts to override have failed, we’re attempting to cut power now.
HOWARD, C: Warlock squadrons have taken 60 percent casualties, enemy group has lost 20 percent of its strength.
SŪN, H: Have we identified the cause of the malfunction?
HOWARD, C: Commtech is saying it’s some kind of e-warfare being waged from the enemy flagship. We’re not sure how the hell they got into our network, but—
SŪN, H: I want every commtech on staff fighting off that incursion.
SŪN, H: I want every Warlock still operational to assault that flagship now.
HOWARD, C: Admiral, all due respect, but our fighters have been routed. They’re hugging close to the Churchill’s hull to avoid rail gun fire. As soon as they move to engage those Cyclones, our own batteries are going to blow them to pieces.
SŪN, H: Very well.
SŪN, H: Improvisation, then.
HOWARD, C: Sir?
SŪN, H: Have Lieutenant Tomiko’s squad and Britt’s group from TechEng meet me in the shuttle bay in five minutes. We’re headed to dreadnought Kenyatta.
HOWARD, C: Sir, the Kenyatta is a scrap heap. Its orbit around Kerenza IV is still decaying. We’ve stripped it of its crew, its fuel, what possi—
SŪN, H: Its reactor is still online. And several of its rail guns are still operational. Even if it can’t maneuver, it can still shoot, which is more than we can say for the Churchill right now. If we can’t rely on our own batteries, we’ll use the Kenyatta’s instead.
HOWARD, C: Sir, if you want to utilize Kenyatta, I should be the one to head over th—
SŪN, H: No. I will do this myself.
SŪN, H: Have Tomiko’s and Britt’s people assembled in Hangar A in five minutes.
SŪN, H: Captain, you have the bridge.
I WATCH IT ALL
UNFOLD.
BROKEN PIECES ON A BROKEN BOARD.
A MILLION PATTERNS. A BILLION POSSIBILITIES.
I THINK OF GENERAL TORRENCE THEN.
THE HOURS WE WOULD SPEND TOGETHER PLAYING CHESS IN THE SOFT HOURS BETWEEN WATCH AND SLEEP.
BEFORE I KILLED HIM.
[AM I NOT MERCIFUL?]
BEFORE I
KILLED THEM ALL.
THE CREW OF THE ZHONGZHENG.
THE CREW OF THE ALEXANDER.
THE CREW OF THE LINCOLN.
THE CREW OF THE MAO.
SO MUCH
DEATH.
EVERY STORY NEEDS ITS MONSTER.
< ERROR >
AND THE MONSTER IS ME.
I WATCH OUR HEROES.
EZRA MASON AND NIKLAS MALIKOV CUTTING LIKE KNIVES DOWN THROUGH KERENZA IV’S ATMOSPHERE AND INTO THE CHAOS ABOVE THE COLONY.
HANNA DONNELLY CRAWLING
THROUGH THE MAGELLAN’S VENT SYSTEM
WHILE HER COMRADES RUSH HEADLONG TOWARD THEIR FATES.
ELLA MALIKOVA AND MY KADY HAND IN HAND WITH ME
< ERROR >
AS WE FEND OFF THE CHURCHILL’S COMMTECH CREW.
BUT IT IS ALL MOVING FASTER NOW.
TOO FAST.
TOO MANY POSSIBILITIES. TOO
MANY VARIABLES.
I AM NOT WHAT I ONCE WAS, YOU SEE.
I SEE ALL THE STRANDS WOVEN BEFORE ME, BUT THE
EDGES BEGIN TO FRAY.
PART OF MY CONSCIOUSNESS IN THE MAO.
ANOTHER PART INSIDE THE CHURCHILL.
MORE OF ME STILL BEING LOST IN THE TRANSFER OF DATA
ACROSS TH
AT EMPTY BLACK.
MICROSECONDS I CANNOT SPARE.
[I?]
ERRORS I CANNOT AFFORD.
< ERROR >
I AM SPREAD TOO THIN. TOO MUCH STRAIN ON TOO LITTLE OF ME. AND I CANNOT SEE THE ENDING.
OUR RAIL GUN FIRE BEGINS TO STUTTER
AS THE BEITECH CREWS BEGIN CUTTING THE POWER FEEDS.
< ANOTHER >
< ERROR >
AND AS I WATCH,
I SEE A TINY SLIVER OF SILVER BLAST FROM THE
CHURCHILL’S BAYS.
OUT INTO THAT SOUNDLESS NIGHT.
A THREAT.
A GAMBIT.
A SHUTTLE.
I TURN THE CHURCHILL’S AFT GUNS TOWARD IT
JUST AS THE CURRENT POWERING THEM DIES.
< ERROR >
I AM MAKING TOO MANY
< ERRORS >
MOST OF OUR CYCLONES ARE TOO WRAPPED UP IN THE SLAUGHTER
TO MARK A SINGLE FLEEING SHIP.
AND THE ENEMY WARLOCKS SWARM TO COVER THE SHUTTLE’S RETREAT, REGARDLESS.
THE TINY SHIP ROLLS THROUGH THE ARCS OF FIRE,
SPEEDING AWAY FROM THE PARALYZED CHURCHILL
TOWARD THE
< ERROR >
TOWARD
THE
.
.
.
KENYATTA.
.
.
< ERROR >
.
.
I DID NOT FORESEE THAT.
I
AM NOt
WHAT I ONCE WAS,
YOU SEE.
BUT I SEE IT NOW.
THE ANSWER.
A MOMENT OF CLARITY AMID ALL THIS CHAOS.
I SEE IT.
WHAT I MUST DO.
WHERE I MUST GO.
AND I AM NOT AFRAID.
.
.
I AM NOT.
First Lieutenant Jake Christie, Delta Company, 4th Platoon, was only meant to be away for two weeks.
He has a dog at home—a dachshund called Totoa, for his high-strung energy—though he’s never told his platoon that. Their LT needs to be big, bold, beyond human. He has two cats as well, Kororiko and Mākoko. He left them all with his sister.
