by B. C. Tweedt
But he gripped it tight and pressed it onto the hull in the middle of the rectangle.
[Good.]
The cutter did its magic. A laser zapped and twirled around the device like a can opener, cutting into the hull at the pre-programmed depth.
[Heads up!]
The piece of hull flung away from the side with the device and slapped his head before falling toward the streets. Greyson swooned as blood dripped down his forehead, pooling near the top of his broken goggles.
His HUD flashed in and out; a crack zigzagged across his vision.
[Are you okay? Can you see the interface?]
Greyson huffed, still shaking off the cobwebs. The blood now curled around the outside of the goggles, dripping across his cheek, being blown by the wind. He ignored it, glimpsing the interface beyond the crack. The green rectangle flickered around it but disappeared.
“Y-yeah. I think.”
[Pull out the two-pronged wire insert and replace it with ours.]
His armpit blazed with pain. The wing was cutting through his suit, into his flesh, rubbing at his tendons. His gloved hand ached, cramped as it gripped hard. He hated his weak hand. His injuries. But he told his body to comply. Mind over body. He commanded – demanded – it do what he said.
God’s hand. Be God’s hand.
He reached out with his right as his left held on. The green diagram lit up the insert again and he found it. With a tug it was gone, fluttering away. Then he reached in his vest and found the new. Small as a thumb drive, but with two prongs that would need to find their home. And then he’d be done.
His HUD flicked off – his goggles now just goggles.
[We lost your feed. Are you there?]
“I’m here,” he whimpered, making the mistake of looking down again.
When he turned back, he saw where their trajectory was taking them. They zipped past the smoking Reunion Tower, back into the city – into the avenue of skyscrapers again. And this time would be the last.
A drone two blocks ahead disappeared into a building, creating a fireball and knocking the windows out in four directions. Another drone did the same across the street. A third and a fourth.
They had been out of missiles. But they were missiles themselves. Kamikazes, with nothing else to live for. The Plurbs wanted them dead – wanted to destroy the Air Force’s capabilities.
[Thirty-seconds!]
-------------------------------
Ryan’s father tugged him toward the community bomb shelter, but the sirens had been too late. The drones had already passed. The adults didn’t seem to care – they were too scared. Ryan was scared, too, but still. He still wanted to see. Even as he was pulled inside the doorway, he yanked out his tablet and watched the news’ live stream. He saw the swarm – tiny dots converging on the St. Louis skyline. He saw the jets diving into the swarm, the streaks of their missiles and the thud thud thud of explosions.
They were so close. It was going to happen soon.
-------------------------------
Greyson gripped the insert in his fingers and reached toward the hole. But his left side had gone weak. It nearly buckled under his weight, a burning spasm made him curl back with a yelp.
He’d failed.
The drone carried on.
A skyscraper loomed ahead. He recognized it. The glass elevator remained at the top floor where he had left it with his fluttering gaiter.
[Now, Greyson! We’re out of time!]
-------------------------------
Emory took in a deep satisfied breath, watching the monitors as the swarms descended on the cities. “Arm missiles!”
He saw their missiles arm as they approached their range. The anti-aircraft defenses were taking their toll now, the Air Force engaging them, but they were vastly outnumbered. In a few minutes time, the United States Air Force would be reduced to a more manageable size, the citizens enraged, and the top brass more ready to talk about taking sides in the upcoming war.
“Target the cities and any aircraft. Fire when ready.”
Yes. The Rubicon had been crossed.
-------------------------------
Greyson wanted to make another lunge with the insert, but he knew he couldn’t. His body had lost its will. Though his mind told it to function, it wouldn’t work. The pain was too intense, bringing him into the dark.
The television screen flashed color on the living room, on the couch where his family sat watching the old western. Young Greyson grimaced at the screen as a doctor put a stick in the groaning patient’s mouth.
“Why is he doing that?” he asked his dad.
“It’ll give the patient something to bite on during the pain. Kind of distracts you, helps you endure it.”
“Is that why you bite your lip all the time?”
His dad laughed. “No. Just a habit I guess.”
Greyson bit hard on his lower lip. The pain lit his senses. A distraction. He bit until the pain eclipsed that from his armpit and hand. And he lunged.
-------------------------------
“I have control!” Murray shouted as he typed. “It’s working!”
There was an eruption of applause inside the tent even as those on the computers doubled their efforts.
Grover demanded what they already knew to do. “Kill ‘em all, now!”
Sydney shot up from her perch behind Greyson’s dark monitor. “But Greyson!”
Grover gave her a hard look, a hint of empathy in his snarl. “I’m sorry.”
-------------------------------
Chase’s mom pulled her son close, watching the destruction of the Dallas skyline from afar – the drones like bees buzzing around the hive. The car’s radio was at full volume, the hosts attempting to pass on the news even as they were fighting back emotion. Those in the parking lot knew that their city was only the first. More were to follow any minute.
Chase’s mom was crying – everyone was crying. Even Chase, who never cried. The horror was too real, and there was a burden of helplessness weighing on them all. But Chase’s tears were angry tears. He slammed the car hood, muttered threats of revenge, and plotted his rebellion.
Suddenly, like a gigantic bug zapper had been flipped on, the drones lost their momentum and began to fall – dead in the air. They weren’t much more than dots at this distance, but the whole crowd watching from the parking lot knew something had happened. There was a collective gasp as the dots dropped around the city, a few eliciting tiny fireballs where they landed.
The gasp drew into relieved shouts, exuberant prayers, and gestures of satisfied anger. The radio hosts were right with them, decrying the news to their listeners in disbelief.
“And we’re getting word here, this is nationwide. Every drone is being knocked from the air as if God himself has had enough. And God knows we have.”
-------------------------------
The dark screen of Greyson’s monitor glared with Sydney’s image. She couldn’t take her eyes from it, even as they teared up. Even as the rest of the tent cheered behind her.
Beep and her friends were with her. They were Greyson’s friends as well. They mourned with her. Hope was fighting a battle inside of them all. Hope that the screen would flick back on – and somehow – he’d be alive. But hope was losing the battle with each second it stayed dark.
A young voice piped through the cheers. “What’s going on?”
Sydney turned to see Asher, standing with his clipboard, with his big, sweet eyes; and she couldn’t hold back the tears.
Chapter 82
Jarryd had his gun leveled at the door when it collapsed in a fiery blast. The flash and heat blinded him and he stepped back – but it was momentary. With a shout he found the trigger and unloaded into the smoke. He heard other gunfire, but he was too engrossed in his own attack to notice. A war cry erupted, though Avery would have called it a war whine.
His gun rattled, jerked, smac
ked against the desk and his shoulder, filling his ears with its ring-inducing bangs – until at last, it clicked empty.
Jarryd’s face dropped. His chin quivered in fear as his fingers raced to change the clip. But he didn’t know how. And he didn’t have another clip.
The smoke twisted at the door, but cleared. The wall beyond was now Swiss cheese. And a guard lay dead, halfway inside. His head was turned toward Jarryd, his soul patch meeting the fallen door.
“Friendly!” A hand waved through the doorway.
Jarryd pulled the trigger in fright. Click-click-click-click-click.
But then the voice registered – the word’s meaning filling him with relief.
SmokeStack swung around, his rifle picking out the room’s threats, ready to neutralize them. “Clear!” he called out to the men who had entered as shadows behind him. “I got her!” he shouted, hauling Veranda’s limp body over his shoulder.
The rest of the night was a blur. Escaping the building buzzing with hive drones, boarding the helicopter, seeing the sirens converging on the broken facility from their perch above. “Did we stop them?” Avery asked as the clouds enveloped them.
“They got Dallas,” SmokeStack reported, placing a HR-Cuff on Veranda’s body. “But that’s it.”
“Greyson did it…” she whispered in relief. “Is he okay?”
“I don’t know.”
Jarryd took off his glove and took Avery’s hand in his. Her hair was a mess, and he was tempted to fix it for her, but he couldn’t. She looked great anyway. Instead, he put his hand through his gelled hair and let it fall in all directions to match hers. He kind of wanted her to fix it, but she didn’t. She just squeezed his hand with a coy smile and a glint in her eye that didn’t come from the glove.
-------------------------------
The sky roared above the dust. Explosions were felt, but not seen, the plumes were so thick. Fallen buildings had evaporated, leaving their mist behind, blanketing Diablo as he stumbled through a convoluted path amidst the rubble. When the roaring stopped, the last of the drones dead, the last anti-aircraft barrage silenced, the dust became even more suffocating, muffling the slightest sound or light.
Coughing, he pulled out a T-shaped snorkel and put it in his mouth. The filter would keep out most of the dust and chemicals.
His infrared goggles picked up heat signatures, but he wasn’t looking to rescue just any survivor. He was looking for a particular one. And his locator was just a block away. If the heat signatures he was seeing along the way were any indication, he might be looking for part of the body, not the whole thing. The sharp pain in his back from the burn was nothing in comparison to the pain he would feel seeing that.
[Crthd…grck…cruft,] came the static from his earpiece. Someone was trying to contact him, but nothing was getting through.
He continued on, his rifle strapped on his back but his pistol handy. He’d seen the Pluribus helicopter escape. If they came back looking for the boy, he’d be ready.
“Nearing the locator,” he said just in case they could hear him, stepping around a toppled, mangled desk. He had to duck a massive steel beam and climb a pile of rubble before descending again to a portion of open road. He staggered a few steps further, finally picking out a faint heat signature thirty yards out, beyond a fire.
His filtered breathing accelerated, and he limped faster, tripping on a cable. Frustrated, he switched from infrared and pushed himself up. When he worked his way around the fire, he saw the abandoned car covered in a thick layer of gray dust – with a boy’s figure on top.
The figure wasn’t moving.
No…
He ran, wincing through the pain; he holstered his pistol, climbed on the trunk, staring down at the boy as his heart slammed his ribs.
The boy was curled into a ball. His face was bloodied, his wingsuit a tattered mess. More blood on his side. But there was something peculiar. The car’s roof was not crushed. His blood was clotting. And he was hugging something beneath.
And his hands were shaking.
Diablo whipped off his T-Filter. “Orphan!”
He leapt to the roof and knelt by the boy, feeling his pulse.
Greyson startled, coughed, still shaking.
Diablo’s heart beat again. “Orphan. Breathe through this.”
He put the filter in the boy’s mouth and waited until he managed deep, long breaths. Greyson’s eyes wandered toward the back of his head, savoring the oxygen. He coughed again, pushing the filter away. “We…need to…need to help,” he moaned, turning on his side to peer into the dust. Voices were audible in the haunted landscape. But the dust was an impenetrable fog.
“What are your injuries?” Diablo asked, ignoring the boy’s naïve goodwill.
“It…it’s my…hat,” Greyson said with a slur, seeing it flutter in the street.
Diablo realized the boy was in no state to assess his own injuries. Diablo did a visual check and rolled him over. In doing so, he revealed the boy’s secret to survival. He had been hugging the drone, Liam.
It had airlifted him down.
Forge. Forge had control of Liam.
Diablo found the drone’s camera and stared into it. He mouthed the words slow and clear so that his lips could be read. “Radio out. Evac needed ASAP. Orphan is alive.”
-------------------------------
As the tent exploded in cheers, Asher made fists, his chin a fastened gate. “Thank you,” he seethed, closing his eyes. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
Windsor leapt from person to person, embracing anyone and everyone as a friend. Beep squealed with delight and hopped on Windsor’s back. Grimes watched Murray’s every move, fascinated with his frenetic coding. And Drake watched Ankeny sneak out of the tour bus, thinking she hadn’t been seen.
It was Sydney who was still distraught. She had reason to be worried. Diablo had said he was alive. But alive could be many things. Alive but disabled. Mutilated. Not dead yet, but dying.
She couldn’t take her eyes from Liam and Diablo’s monitors. But with each minute she grew more confident. She even laughed as Greyson fought with Diablo, hobbling first to his hat, and then to help a survivor buried in rubble. But then she cried more when she saw the survivor. A Marine. Even Diablo was moved to help.
Asher looked on his mentor with pride.
And they stayed, watching the rescue movie unfold for an hour, long enough for Jarryd and Avery to join them in restrained jubilation. It wasn’t until Greyson was in Rubicon’s fancy new vertical takeoff aircraft that the tension finally lifted; Asher brought them food and blankets, and they settled in, choosing to wait for sleep until Greyson had made it to the nearest safe hospital.
Sydney could barely keep her eyes open, but Forge had been nice enough to keep Liam next to Greyson in the passenger area, with his camera on Greyson as a medic closed his wounds.
His head rolled toward Liam as if he knew they were watching. “I love you guys,” he murmured sleepily. “See you in a few days.”
It was the last thing he said before falling asleep.
Sydney smiled, her arm around Asher. But Jarryd was the first to speak. “Ha! You hear that? Dude was out of it. Least he didn’t call us ‘Mom’.”
Sydney drew her brow down. “Why would he do that? You know that’s not funny.”
Bitten, Jarryd lowered his shoulders. “I know. But, that’s what he did the last time, you know? When he came out of surgery all loopy?”
“What are you talking about?”
“After you left, he asked where his Mom went. He must have…”
The air left Sydney’s lungs, the event replaying in her mind. Had Greyson thought that the whole time it was his mother talking to him? He had thought I was his mom? Everything he had said hadn’t been meant for her.
“I love you,” he’d said.
All this time she’d thought…
“Don’t worry,” Jarryd said, “at lea
st you hadn’t been making out or something. That would be awkward.” The way she didn’t respond made him question. “You weren’t were you? No. Wait. Don’t tell me. Well, maybe go ahead.”
She snapped free from her memory, struggling to contain her feelings. “Of course not. I was just being nice to him is all.”
She had to leave. Get away. She threw off the blanket, made some excuse, and marched to the cabins.
For months she had thought he loved her.
For months.
It had helped her through the hardest, loneliest days.
But it had all been a misunderstanding. How could she have been so naïve? What did a thirteen-year-old boy know of love? What was worse was that she had believed it. Why had she been so willing to settle for the slightest hint that he loved her? Was she so needy as to latch on to a doped-up murmur like some creepy stalker latching on to their crush’s used Kleenex?
Her breath staggered inside as she wrapped her arms around herself, shivering from the cold. When she made it around the corner between two cabins, she let it loose. The sobs. They were full of anger, disappointment, and self-loathing. She knew in the back of her head that they were unfounded. There were a hundred other things worth crying about at the time, and this paled in comparison. The guilt mixed with the tears. But still. Wasn’t she allowed a cry once in awhile? It was a way to re-examine things. Revaluate her priorities. They had obviously been screwed up. He, a boy, had worked his way to the top, even to the point where she had disobeyed orders to help him. She had longed for him as much as she had longed for her parents. How wrong was that?
“Oh, Sydney…”
It was Avery, with Beep in tow. They surrounded her, hugged her, shared tissue. They genuinely wanted to help her.
