by Rick Partlow
“What’s…” I started to ask, still confused, but Anatoly raised a hand to quiet me.
“It repeats,” he informed me.
“I am Israfil,” the recorded voice began again. “I am a High Priest of the Ancients, and I have come to this world to reclaim that which is rightfully ours. I have nothing against any of the pure humans here, against those who have not given themselves over to the blasphemy of rejecting the perfect forms with which our creators gifted us. I don’t wish to harm any of these innocents.”
I could see their faces now, the people in the streets. There were older men and women, showing their age in a way that seemed unnatural to me, seemed obscene somehow. They huddled against the cold in misery, buried inside their heavy jackets but still cold. There were children, from toddlers up to teenagers, clutching at their parents’ in fright and uncertainty, their eyes wide and their cheeks red. And then there were the parents, the younger ones, though they looked old before their time as well. They seemed helpless and frustrated and angry and, more than anything else, terrified for their children.
“The fate of these people is in your hands, Randall Munroe.” The words sent a chill down my back as I began to understand what they meant. “I don’t want you, and I don’t want them. I want the one called Marquette, and I know you have him. Deliver him to my forces, alive and in good condition, and I give you my word on the sacred light of the Ancients that I and all my acolytes will leave this place immediately! You have until 1500 hours local time to respond!”
“And so on,” Anatoly commented dryly, switching off the speakers. “That’s another two hours, in case you’d lost track of time.”
I stared at the screens but I wasn’t seeing them. Instead, I was remembering another transmission, one the Tahni had sent the Resistance on Demeter during the war. They’d recorded it in the Amity town square, after we’d launched a successful raid on their headquarters. Their response had been to line up against a wall everyone who had worked in any capacity for the city, planetary or Commonwealth government, and then have them publicly executed. I saw their faces on those screens.
I saw the face of the mother who’d been implanted with a tracker and sent to the Resistance hide-outs with her family. She’d known we couldn’t send her back to the Tahni, and we couldn’t take her back with us, either. She knew what had to be done, but she couldn’t do it herself, so she’d begged me to kill her. And I’d done it, because there were so many other lives on the line, because I’d known it had to be that way.
And now, there was even more at stake. There was the carnage and death and chaos that the Cult would unleash if they were given access to Predecessor weapons, weighed against the lives of a few dozen outlaws living as peons on the Pirate Worlds.
“You’re not actually considering doing this, are you?”
The question came from Calderon, but when I turned back to the doorway, I could see that Bobbi, Victor and Kurt were with him as well…and so was Marquette. None of them looked happy.
“How did they know?” Victor asked me. I frowned in confusion. “How did they know you’d care about the civilians?” He clarified. “Most mercenaries wouldn’t.”
“I think I said something about it when I was talking to the Sung Brothers,” I admitted ruefully. “This Israfil seems pretty quick on the uptake.”
“Oh, Christ Jesus,” Calderon moaned in disgust, shaking his head, “you are going to do it…”
“We can’t let all those innocent people die,” Kurt declared stolidly. “Not after Demeter.”
I looked at him, a bit surprised he’d taken the position that strongly without his older brother occupying it first. He’d changed as much as Sanders, I decided, it was just harder to notice it in the shadow of Victor.
“I won’t let them kill those people,” I insisted. “But I don’t have the right to hand over Captain Marquette to the Cult against his will, either. God only knows what they’d do to him to try to get the location of the Predecessor tech, not even talking about what they’d wind up doing with the technology.”
“We have to hit them, then,” Bobbi judged, not seeming frightened of the thought, nor eager either. In fact, she seemed like she was about to fall asleep on her feet. “If we start sniping them from long range, they’ll have to let the civilians go and head for cover.”
“Until that drop pod zeroes in on your locations,” Calderon pointed out, “and brings whatever building you’re hold up in down around you. Or has the shuttle do it for him.”
“What would you suggest, Captain Calderon?” I asked him, hearing the chill in my voice even though I hadn’t intended it.
“Look at those people, Munroe,” Calderon said, pointing at the images on the monitors. “There are what? Maybe twenty or thirty of them? In one section of a small city on a backwards, outlaw colony out on the fringes? That’s what the whole fucking Commonwealth will look like, if you let the Cultists get Predecessor technology. That’s what Earth will look like.”
He was a stone-cold prick, but he wasn’t wrong. I didn’t say anything, which encouraged him to continue.
“It sucks,” he said, “but your number one priority has to be keeping the Cultists from getting hold of this man.” He looked over at Marquette, regarding him like he might a bug. “Even if you have to kill him to do it.”
“Whoa!” Marquette’s eyes were large, his face pale as he backed up a step from the others. “Let’s not be doing anything we’ll be sorry for later!”
“The merc’s right,” Bobbi admitted, shrugging indifferently. “We can’t turn him over if he’s dead. We show Israfil the body, say Marquette got killed in the gunfire up top earlier, maybe they’ll just leave.”
Honestly, what they were saying made total sense. I’d done worse and for not as good of a reason. Again, the image of that young mother with the implanted Tahni tracker flashed in my head, the red splash as the bullet took her in the back of the head.
“We’re not killing him,” I said flatly, and it almost seemed to me like I was hearing someone else say it, that I had no control over the words. I looked over at the frightened mineral scout captain, who was still backing up, eyeing the hallway back to the stairwell with panic in his expression. “Relax, Marquette,” I told him. “None of us are going to hurt you.”
He didn’t seem totally convinced, but he stopped trying to slink away and leaned cautiously against the wall, still keeping a watch on Bobbi and Calderon.
“We’ll take our chances with an assault,” I decided. “It’s not perfect, but even if some of the civilians get caught in the crossfire, it’s still better than watching them all get executed.” I nodded to Calderon. “Me and mine will take the other exit, out through that bar the kid was talking about and set up to distract them. While we do, you and your two take Marquette and head for the extraction point outside town. Our ship will be landing there in a few hours, so you just have to stay out of sight until then. If everything goes right, we’ll meet you there.”
“And what happens when it doesn’t go right?” The Savage/Slaughter officer wondered. There was no malice in his tone, just a depressed certainty, which made it worse, somehow.
“Anyone who’s not there by the time our ship arrives,” I stated simply, “won’t be coming.”
He shook his head, but didn’t try to argue with me, most likely because he knew he’d be getting out either way. I turned back to Anatoly.
“You’ll go with Calderon,” I said. “Kane’ll take you wherever you want to go, even if I don’t show up.” I looked around, realizing I was forgetting something. “Where’s the kid?”
“He’s not comfortable around so many people,” the Skinganger said. “He’s hiding out farther down the tunnel, under the wrecked bar.”
“Make sure he knows to keep his head down and stay off the street until this is done.” I felt guilty I wouldn’t be able to take him with us, get him somewhere safer.
“You’re really going to risk your lives for those Norms
?” He asked me, and I couldn’t tell from his tone if he was impressed or amused. I didn’t bother answering him.
“Bobbi, go brief Sanders and Waugh and let them know we move out in an hour.”
She nodded, and Kurt and Victor followed her back to the main chamber. Marquette stared at me for a long moment before he turned and walked after them without saying another word.
***
“I wonder if Vilberg is okay,” Waugh murmured, checking the charge on her rifle for the tenth time in the last ten minutes.
“He knows the extraction point,” I reminded her, testing the sync between my contact lens and my weapon’s sight and wishing, again, that I had a helmet. “If he made it through the Cultists, he’s probably hiding out there, waiting for Kane and Divya to get back.”
“He’s not a bad troop,” Sanders allowed with a shrugging tilt of his head, just before he slid his helmet on and began testing the seal. “For a Fleet Security type, anyway,” he continued over his external speaker.
It had been only a half hour since I’d made my decision and everyone was way past ready. There wasn’t much we could do other than stuff down a last ration bar or go to the bathroom one last time before we sealed up our armor. We were antsy and so were Calderon and the others. Even Anatoly seemed to be pacing in the hall out past the chamber, towards the stairwell. I’d never seen a Skinganger pace before.
I was seriously considering just moving up the time of the attack and I was about to suggest it when I noticed that Marquette wasn’t in the room. I frowned, coming to my feet. If he bolted, we wouldn’t be able to protect him.
“Where’s Marquette?” I asked. Everyone looked at me blankly. I stuck my head out the door to the hallway. “Marquette?” I called and heard it echo back at me in hollow emptiness.
“He said he had to go to the bathroom,” Anatoly volunteered, pausing in his restless, metallic shuffle. “There’s one in the security monitoring room.” He paused. “That was a while ago, though…”
I don’t know why I was suddenly nervous; maybe it was instinct, or maybe paranoia. I stepped quickly down to the monitoring room and yanked the door open. Its metal hinges squeaked plaintively and I saw immediately that the room was empty. I ducked inside and went to the small, plastic screen that walled off the chemical toilet and pushed back the curtain, not caring if I walked in on Marquette while he was taking a dump.
Nothing.
“Damn, damn, damn,” I muttered, turning back…and seeing that the monitors were showing an empty street. The Cultists were gone, and so were the civilians. That is, most of the monitors were showing an empty street. One of them was frozen on a video frame of Captain Marquette.
I looked down at the control panel and found the key to play the recording.
“Mr. Munroe,” he said, stroking his beard nervously. “I’m not a particularly good person. I don’t bullshit myself and think that I am. But once upon a time, I flew a scout ship for Fleet Intelligence in the war, and I remember a version of me that gave a shit.” He shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. “I’m not going to put those kids in danger. This is my fault, and I’m going to be the one to pay for my own mistakes. I think I can hold out, maybe, at least for a while.” He closed his eyes, shuddering slightly. “But if I can’t, you have to get to the planet before they do. You have to make sure they never leave. I know you didn’t want to know this, but now you have to. I’m going to tell you how to get to the Predecessor outpost…”
When I stepped out of the room a few seconds later, the others were in the hallway, all of them, looks of realization beginning to show on their faces. They’d brought their gear, and the ones who didn’t have their helmets on already had them in their hands.
“He’s gone,” I told them, a cold numbness creeping downward from my head and settling into my chest. “He turned himself over to the Cultists. They’ll have to head for the port to board their shuttle, and they can’t have gone far yet. Come on, we’re moving out now and we’re moving out fast. Follow me.”
I didn’t bother with subtlety, didn’t bother with the secret exit. I just charged straight up the way we’d come. If I left anyone behind, then they’d have to catch up. There was a gone feeling in the pit of my stomach, but at least the sleep had done me some good; I had energy now, and not the kind I had to borrow against later exhaustion. The stairs flew beneath my boots in a rhythmic clatter of spiked soles on metal grating and the light began to grow brighter. It was late afternoon, and even through the cloud cover, you could see the harsh glare of the primary shining.
When I hit the street above, I had to squint to keep my eyes open and I just knew that I was going to catch a laser pulse right in the head from some rear guard that Israfil had left behind. But there was nothing, and no one. The street was as empty as it had appeared on the monitors. The civilians had vanished into new hidey-holes, somewhere they thought would keep them safe from the Cultists and the Skingangers and the Sung Brothers’ enforcers, and the bratva and whatever else might try to kill them on this God-forsaken world. And the Cultists were gone as well, but I knew where they’d be.
I headed northeast, towards the landing field. I wouldn’t arrogate the place by calling it a spaceport, but it was plenty large enough for that shuttle to land and take on the Cultists and Marquette. I could hear the thud of booted feet on the street behind me, and I knew at least some of them were following me. My guys would be following me, at least, and that was enough.
It seemed dreamlike, running almost alone through the empty, ruined city, only the sound of my own breath in my ears breaking the utter silence. The smoke of burning buildings mixed with the fog and haze to blur out everything farther than a hundred meters or so away and made it seem like I wasn’t actually going anywhere, just repeating the same stretch of rough pavement over and over. It was over two kilometers from the hide-out to the landing field, which wouldn’t take more than seven or eight minutes to run even in full armor, but I didn’t know if the Cultists had a vehicle. If they did, I could break the Olympic record and still not beat them there and that thought gnawed at me like a scavenger on a bone.
I was so consumed with worrying whether we’d get there on time that I didn’t see the truck until it almost ran me over. I stumbled, skidding, and nearly tumbled head over heels trying to stop as the vehicle braked to a halt beside me in the street. It was an open-bed cargo truck like the ones the Skingangers had been using, and it had taken a few hits on the cab from laser weapons, including one that had burned away the driver’s side door.
Sitting behind the controls, grinning like a loon, his helmet off and laying on the seat beside him, was Vilberg.
“Hey, Boss,” he said, throwing me an off-handed salute. “You look like you could use a ride.”
I let out a panting breath that turned into a chuckle. I turned back to tell whoever was following me to pile in and saw that everyone was there, including Anatoly and Calderon and his people, and those that weren’t already on board were clambering up into the cargo bed. I couldn’t help but smile with a certain sense of satisfaction. I ran to the passenger side, pulled aside what was left of the shot-up door and jumped inside.
“Get us to the landing field before the Cultists take off, Vilberg,” I told him, letting the barrel of my Gauss rifle hang out the door, “and you’ve got yourself a full-time job.”
Chapter Fifteen
I heard the shuttles landing before I saw them, coming in on the other side of the rise, where the rolling hills outside town stretched down into the flat plain of the spaceport. The turbines were shrieking in protest as one after another lowered on their belly jets and I wanted to yell at Vilberg to drive faster, but he was barely keeping the truck under control as it was. We fishtailed around a curve in the road, sending dirt and mud spraying up from the rear wheels before he straightened the vehicle out and jammed the accelerator down to take the last rise.
We shot over the hump in the road, catching air as we did, and I brace
d myself for the impact when our front end came down. There was a crunch of plastic shattering and the squeal of metal protesting the strain and I was nearly thrown right through the truck’s windshield headfirst. But there they were, the whole fucking lot of them.
It had taken three trucks to get them to the spaceport, and I assumed they’d been arranged for ahead of time; they had the look of rental vehicles, and none had battle damage. There were at least thirty of the Cultists, and there had probably been over fifty when the battle had started, taking into consideration the dead ones I’d seen in the streets of Shakak. Some were wounded, struggling to get out of the trucks, and nearly all of them had stripped off their helmets, some even pulling off their armor as they un-assed the trucks, probably thinking the fighting was over. Most didn’t even hear us approaching over the screaming roar of the two shuttles setting down, or see us through the cloud of dust their belly jets kicked up around them.
It was perfect.
“Ram ‘em!” I yelled at Vilberg, bracing against the dashboard with my right boot. “Run right through ‘em!”
We were only thirty meters away when the first of the Cultists noticed us. I could see heads turn and shouts of warning forming on those perfect, fake, over-sculpted faces, could see the muzzles of their laser weapons swinging around. There were flashes all around us, and smoke and sparks and steam began pouring off the truck’s engine compartment in the second before it plowed right into the closest group of dismounts. The ones who didn’t go flying went down under the wheels, and I could feel the vehicle shudder as it rolled over them.
We’d slowed down after that first hit and I used the opportunity to throw myself out the door, taking the impact on my shoulder and rolling to my feet even as the cargo truck slammed into one of the Cult transports, pinning three of their fighters between the two vehicles and coming to a shuddering, crunching, squealing halt. There were two of the almost identical Cult fighters struggling to their feet right in front of me, one still fully armored, the other without a helmet. I shot the armored one through the neck at short range, the supersonic slug nearly taking off the man’s head. I kicked the other in the face, feeling the bones of his skull crack beneath the spikes of my boot, and he slumped back to the ground with that perfect face a bloody ruin.
